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Full text of "The every-day book and Table book : or, Everlasting calendar of popular amusements, sports, pastimes, ceremonies, manners, customs, and events, incident to each of the three hundred and sixty-five days, in past and present times; forming a complete history of the year, months, and seasons, and a perpetual key to the almanac ... for daily use and diversion. With four hundred and thirty-six engravings"

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PETRARCH'S  INKSTAND. 
IN  THE  POSSESSION  OF  Miss  EDGBWORTH,  PRESENTED  TO  HKR  BY  A  LADY. 

By  beauty  won  from  soft  Italia's  land. 
Here  Cupid,  Petrarch's  Cupid,  takes  his  stand. 
Arch  suppliant,  welcome  to  thy  fav'rite  isle, 
Close  thy  spread  wings,  and  rest  thee  here  awhile  : 
Still  the  true  heart  with  kindred  strains  inspire, 
Breathe  all  a  poet's  softness,  all  his  flre  ; 
But  if  the  perjured  knight  approach  this  font, 
Forbid  trie  words  to  come  as  they  were  wont, 
Forbid  the  ink  to  flow,  the  pen  to  write, 
And  send  the  false  one  baffled  from  thy  sight. 

Miss  Edgeworth. 


THE 


EYERY  -DAY   BOO 


TABLE    BOOK; 


EVERLASTING  CALENDAR  OF  POPULAR  AMUSEMENTS, 

SPORTS,  PASTIMES,  CEREMONIES,  MANNERS, 
CUSTOMS,   AND    EVENTS, 


INCIDENT    TO 


of  tfje 


anfc 


IN   PAST   AND    PRESENT   TIMES; 


FORMING   A 

COMPLETE  HISTORY  OF   THE  YEAR,  MONTHS,  AND   SEASONS, 

AND   A 

PERPETUAL  KEY   TO   THE    ALMANAC; 

INCLUDING 

ACCOUNTS  OF  THE  WEATHER,  RULES  FOR  HEALTH  AND  CONDUCT,  REMARKABLE  AND 
IMPORTANT  ANECDOTES,  FACTS,  AND  NOTICES,  IN  CHRONOLOGY,  ANTIQUITIES,  TOPO- 
GRAPHY, BIOGRAPHY,  NATURAL  HISTORY,  ART,  SCIENCE,  AND  GENERAL  LITERATURE  ; 
DERIVED  FROM  THE  MOST  AUTHENTIC  SOURCES,  AND  VALUABLE  ORIGINAL  COMMU- 
NICATIONS, WITH  POETICAL  ELUCIDATIONS,  FOR  DAILY  USE  AND  DIVERSION. 


BY   WILLIAM   HONE. 


I  tell  of  festivals,  and  fairs,  and  plays, 

Of  merriment,  and  mirth,  and  bonfire  blaze ; 

I  tell  of  Christmas-mummings,  new  year's  day, 

Of  twelfth-night  king  and  queen,  and  children's  play ; 

I  tell  of  valentines,  and  true-love's-knots, 

Of  omens,  cunning  men,  and  drawing  lots  : 


I  tell  of-  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds  and  bowers, 

Of  April,  May,  of  June,  and  July-flowers  ; 

I  tell  of  May-poles,  hock-carts,  wassails,  wakes, 

Of  bridegrooms,  brides,  and  of  their  bridal  cakes ; 

I  tell  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I  sing 

The  court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  fairy  king. 

HERRICK. 


WITH  TOUR  HUNDRED  AND  THIRTY-SIX  ENGRAVINGS. 


IN   THREE  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  III. 


LONDON : 


PRINTED    FOR     THOMAS  fXJSGG, 

73,    C  H  E  A  P  S  I  D  E. 


;•-..••    • 


p/? 

I/O 


I  2io 

hi 
c  « 


J.  Haddon,  Printer,  Castle  Street,  Finsbniy. 


PREFACE. 


OH  the  close  of  the  E VERY-DAY  BOOK,  which  commenced  on  New  Year's 

Day,  1825,  and  ended  in  the  last  week  of  1826,  I  began  this  work. 

«. 

The  only  prospectus  of  the  TABLE  BOOR  was  the  eight  versified  lines  on  the 
title-page.  They  appeared  on  New  Year's  Day,  prefixed  to  the  first  number  ; 
which,  with  the  successive  sheets,  to  the  present  date,  constitute  the  volume 
now  in  the  reader's  hands,  and  the  entire  of  my  endeavours  during  the  hull 
year, 

So  long  as  I  am  enabled,  and  the  public  continue  to  be  pleased,  the  TABLE 
BOOK  will  be  continued.  The  kind  reception  of  the  weekly  numbers,  and  the 
monthly  parts,  encourages  me  to  hope  that  like  favour  will  be  extended  to  the 
half-yearly  volume.  Its  multifarious  contents  and  the  illustrative  engravings, 
with  the  help  of  the  copious  index,  realize  my  wish,  "  to  please  the  young, 
and  help  divert  the  wise."  Perhaps,  if  the  good  old  window-seats  had  not  gone 
out  of  fashion,  it  might  be  called  a  parlour-window  book — a  good  name  for  a 
volume  of  agreeable  reading  selected  from  the  book-case,  and  left  lying  about, 
for  the  constant  recreation  of  the  family,  and  the  casual  amusement  of  visitors. 

W.  HONE. 
Midsummer,  1837. 


THE    FRONTISPIECE. 


PETRARCH'S   INKSTAND. 


Miss  EDOEWORTH'S  lines  express  her  esti- 
mation of  the  gem  she  has  the  happiness 
to  own.  That  lady  allowed  a  few  casts 
from  it  in  bronze,  and  a  gentleman  who 
possesses  one,  and  who  favours  the  "  Table 
Book"  with  his  approbation,  permits  its 
use  for  a  frontispiece  to  this  volume.  The 
engraving  will  not  be  questioned  as  a  deco- 
ration, and  it  has  some  claim  to  be  regarded 
as  an  elegant  illustration  of  a  miscellany 
which  draws  largely  on  art  and  literature, 
and  on  nature  itself,  towards  its  supply. 

"  I  delight,"  says  Petrarch,  "  in  my  pic- 
tures. I  take  great  pleasure  also  in  images; 
they  come  in  show  more  near  unto  nature 
than  pictures,  for  they  do  but  appear ;  but 
these  are  felt  to  be  substantial,  and  their 
bodies  are  more  durable.  Amongst  the 
Grecians  the  art  of  painting  was  esteemed 
above  all  handycrafts,  and  the  chief  of  all 
the  liberal  arts.  How  great  the  dignity  hath 
been  of  statues;  and  how  fervently  the  study 
and  desire  of  men  have  reposed  in  such 
pleasures,  emperors  and  kings,  and  other 
noble  personages,  nay,  even  persons  of  in- 
ferior degree,  have  shown,  in  their  indus- 
trious keeping  of  them  when  obtained." 
Insisting  on  the  golden  mean,  as  a  rule  of 
happiness,  he  says,  "  I  possess  an  amazing 
collection  of  books,  for  attaining  this,  and 
every  virtue  :  great  is  my  delight  in  behold- 
ing such  a  treasure."  He  slights  persons 
who  collect  books  "  for  the  pleasure  of 
boasting  they  have  them ;  who  furnish  their 
chambers  with  what  was  invented  to  furnish 
their  minds ;  and  use  them  no  otherwise 
than  they  do  their  Corinthian  tables,  or 
their  painted  tables  and  images,  to  look 
at."  He  contemns  others  who  esteem  not 
the  true  value  of  books,  but  the  price  at 
•which  they  may  sell  them — "  a  new  prac- 
tice" (observe  it  is  Petrarch  that  speaks) 
"crept  in  among  the  rich,  whereby  they  may 
attain  one  art  more  of  unruly  desire."  He 
repeats,  with  rivett'mg  force,  "  I  have  great 
plenty  of  books :  where  such  scarcity  has 
been  lamented,  this  is  no  small  possession : 
I  have  an  inestimable  many  of  books '.'' 
He  was  a  diligent  collector,  and  a  liberal 
imparter  of  these  treasures.  He  corres- 
ponded with  Rictiiwu  «e  Bury,  :*-,  i\i^- 
hriou*  prelate  of  our  own  country,  eminent 
for  his  love  of  learning  and  learned  men, 


and  sent  many  precious  volumes  to  Eng- 
land to  enrich  the  bishop's  magnificent 
library.  He  vividly  remarks,  "  I  delight 
passionately  in  my  books ;"  and  yet  he  who 
had  accumulated  them  largely,  estimated 
them  rightly  :  he  has  a  saying  of  books 
worthy  of  himself — "  a  wise  man  seeketh 
not  quantity  but  sufficiency." 

Petrarch  loved  the  quiet  scenes  of  nature y 
and  these  can  scarcely  be  observed  from  a 
carriage  or  while  riding,  and  are  never 
enjoyed  but  on  foot ;  and  to  me — on  whom 
that  discovery  was  imposed,  and  who  am 
sometimes  restrained  from  country  walks, 
by  necessity  —  it  was  no  small  pleasure, 
when  I  read  a  passage  in  his  "  View  of 
Human  Nature,"  which  persuaded  me  of 
his  fondness  for  the  exercise  :  "  A  jour- 
ney on  foot  hath  most  pleasant  commo- 
dities ;  a  man  may  go  at  his  pleasure  ;  none 
shall  stay  him,  none  shall  carry  him  beyond 
his  wish;  none  shall  trouble  him;  he  hath 
but  one  labour,  the  labour  of  nature — to 
go."- 

In  "  The  Indicator"  there  is  a  paper  of 
peculiar  beauty,  by  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  "  on 
receiving  a  sprig  of  myrtle  from  Vaucluse," 
with  a  paragraph  suitable  to  this  occasion  : 
"  We  are  supposing  that  all  our  readers 
are  acquainted  with  Petrarch.  Many  of 
them  doubtless  know  him  intimately. 
Should  any  of  them  want  an  introduct  n 
to  him,  how  should  we  speak  of  him  in  u*e 
gross  ?  We  should  say,  that  he  was  one 
of  the  finest  gentlemen  and  greatest  scho- 
lars that  ever  lived  ;  that  he  was  a  writer 
who  flourished  in  Italy  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  at  the  time  when  Chaucer  was 
young,  during  the  reigns  of  our  Edwards; 
that  he  was  the  greatest  light  of  his  age ; 
that  although  so  fine  a  writer  himself,  and 
the  author  of  a  multitude  of  works,  or 
rather  because  he  was  both,  he  took  the 
greatest  pains  to  revive  the  knowledge  of 
the  ancient  learning,  recommending  it  every 
where,  and  copying  out  large  manuscripts 
with  his  own  hand  ;  that  two  great  citit -••-. 
Paris  and  Rome,  contended  which  should 
have  the  honour  of  crowning1  him  ;  that  he 
was  crowned  publicly,  in  the  metropolis  of 
the  world,  with  laurel  and  with  myrtle ; 
that  he  was  the  frienH  of  Boccaccio  the 
father  of  Italian  prose  ;  and  lastly,  that  his 


PETRARCH'S  INKSTAND 


greatest  renown  nevertheless,  as  well  as  the 
predominant  feelings  of  his  existence,  arose 
from  the  long  love  he  bore  for  a  lady  of 
Avignon,  the  far-famed  Laura,  whom  he 
fell  in  love  with  on  the  6th  of  April,  1327, 
on  a  Good  Friday;  whom  he  rendered 
illustrious  in  a  multitude  of  sonnets,  which 
have  left  a  sweet  sound  and  sentiment  in 
the  ear  of  all  after  lovers  ;  and  who  died, 
still  passionately  beloved,  in  the  year  1348, 
on  the  same  day  and  hour  on  which  he  first 
beheld  her.  Who  she  was,  or  why  their 
connection  was  not  closer,  remains  a  mys- 
tery. But  that  she  was  a  real  person,  and 
that  in  spite  of  all  her  modesty  she  did  not 
show  an  insensible  countenance  to  his  pas- 
sion, is  clear  from  his  long-haunted  imagi- 
nation, from  his  own  repeated  accounts, 
from  all  that  he  wrote,  uttered,  and  thought. 
One  love,  and  one  poet,  sufficed  to  give  the 
whole  civilized  world  a  sense  of  delicacy 
in  desire,  of  the  abundant  riches  to  be 
found  in  one  single  idea,  and  of  the  going 
out  of  a  man's  self  to  dwell  in  the  soul  and 
happiness  of  another,  which  has  served  to 
refine  the  passion  for  all  modern  times ; 
and  perhaps  will  do  so,  as  long  as  love  re- 
news the  world." 

At  Vaucluse,  or  Valchiusa,  "  a  remark- 
ab.e  spot  in  the  old  poetical  region  of  Pro- 
vence, consisting  of  a  little  deep  glen  of 
green  meadows  surrounded  with  rocks,  and 
containing  the  fountain  of  the  river  Sorgue," 
Petrarch  resided  for  several  years,  and 
composed  in  it  the  greater  part  of  his 
poems. 

The  following  is  a  translation  by  sir 
William  Jones,  of 

AN  ODE,  BY  PETRARCH, 
To   THE  FOUNTAIN   OF   VAL«HIUSA 

Ye  clear  and  sparkling;  streams ! 

(Warm'd  by  the  sunny  beams) 
Through  whose  transparent  crystal  Laura  play'd  ; 

Ye  boughs  that  deck  the  grove, 

Where  Spring  her  chaplets  wove, 
While  Laura  lay  beneath  the  quivering  shade  ; 

Sweet  herbs  I  and  blushing  flowers ! 

That  crown  yon  vernal  bowers, 
For  ever  fatal,  yet  for  ever  dear  ; 

And  ye,  that  heard  my  sighs 

When  first  she  charm'd  my  eyes, 
Soft-breathing  gales !  my  dying  accents  hear. 

If  Heav'n  has  fix'd  my  doom. 

That  Love  must  quite  consume 


My  bursting  heart,  and  close  my  eyes  In  death 

Ah  1  grant  this  slight  request, — 

That  here  my  urn  may  rest, 
When  to  its  mansion  flies  my  vital  breath. 

This  pleasing  hope  will  smooth 

My  anxious  mind,  and  soothe 
The  pangs  of  that  inevitable  hoar ; 

My  spirit  will  not  grieve 

Her  mortal  veil  to  leave 
In  these  calm  shades,  and  this  enchanting  bower 

Haply,  the  guilty  maid 

Through  yon  accnstom'd  glade 
To  my  sad  tomb  will  take  her  lonely  way 

Where  first  her  beauty's  light 

O'erpower'd  my  dazzled  sight. 
When  love  on  this  fair  border  bade  me  stray  : 

There,  sorrowing,  shall  she  see. 

Beneath  an  aged  tree, 
Her  true,  but  hapless  lover's  lowly  bier ; 

Too  late  her  tender  sighs 

Shall  melt  the  pitying  skies, 
And  her  soft  veil  shall  hide  the  gashing  tear 

0  I  well-reinember'd  day, 
When  on  yon  bank  she  lay, 

Meek  in  her  pride,  and  in  her  rigour  mild  ; 

The  young  and  blooming  flowers. 

Falling  in  fragrant  showers, 
Shone  on  her  neck,  and  on  her  bosom  saiil'd 

Some  on  her  mantle  hung, 

Some  in  her  locks  were  strung, 
Like  orient  gems  in  rings  of  flaming  gold  ; 

Some,  in  a  spicy  cloud 

Descending,  call'd  aloud, 
"  Here  Love  and  Youth  the  reins  of  empire  hold, ' 

1  view'd  the  heavenly  maid  : 
And,  rapt  in  wonder,  said — 

"  The  groves  of  Eden  gave  this  angel  birth  ," 

Her  look,  her  voice,  her  smile, 

That  might  all  Heaven  beguile, 
Wafted  my  soul  above  the  realms  of  earth  . 

The  star-bespangled  skies 

Were  open'd  to  my  eyes  ; 
Sighing  I  said, "  Whence  rose  this  glittering  scene  ?' 

Since  that  auspicious  hour. 

This  bank,  and  odorous  bower, 
My  morning  couch,  and  evening  haunt  have  bee*. 

Well  mavst  thou  blusj,  my  song, 

To  leave  tne  rural  ttirODf( 
And  fly  thus  artless  to  my  Laura's  ear , 

But,  were  thy  poet's  fire 

Ardent  as  his  desire, 
Thou  wert  a  song  that  Heaven  might  stoop  to  hear 

It  is  within  probability  to  imagine,  that 
the  original  of  this  "ode  "may  have  been 
impressed  on  the  paper,  by  Petrarch'*  pea, 
from  the  inkstand  of  the  'rontispiece. 


THE 

TABLE  BOOK. 


FORMERLY,  a  "  Table  Book"  was  a  memo- 
randum book,  on  which  any  thing  was 
graved  or  written  without  ink.  It  is  men- 
tioned by  Shakspeare.  Polonius,  on  disclos- 
ing Ophelia's  affection  for  Hamlet  to  the 
king,  inquires 

"  When  I  had  seen  this  hot  lore  on  the  wing, 
what  might  you, 


Or  my  dear  majesty,  your  queen  here,  think, 
If  I  had  play'd  the  desk,  or  table-book  ?" 

Dr.  Henry  More,  a  divine,  and  moralist, 
of  the  succeeding  century,  observes,  that 
"  Nature  makes  clean  the  table-book  first, 
and  then  portrays  upon  it  what  she  pleas- 
eth."  In  this  sense,  it  might  have  been 
used  instead  of  »a  tabula  rasa,  or  sheet  of 
blank  writing  paper,  adopted  by  Locke  as 
an  illustration  of  the  human  mind  in  its 
incipi.ency.  It  is  figuratively  introduced 
to  nearly  the  same  purpose  by  Swift :  he 
tells  us  that 

"  Nature's  fair  tal»le-book,  our  tender  souls, 
We  scrawl  all  o'er  with  old  and  empty  rules, 
Stale  memorandums  of  the  schools." 

Dryden  says,  "  Put  into  your  Table-Book 
whatsoever  you  judge  worthy."* 

I  hope  I  shall  not  unworthily  err,  if,  in 
the  commencement  of  a  work  under  this 
title,  I  show  what  a  Table  Book  was. 

Table  books,  or  tablets,  of  wood,  existed 
before  the  time  of  Homer,  and  among  the 
Jews  before  the  Christian  aera.  The  table 
books  of  the  Romans  were  nearly  like  ours, 
which  will  be  described  presently;  except 
that  the  leaves,  which  were  two,  three,  or 
more  in  number,  were  of  wood  surfaced 
with  wax.  They  wrote  on  them  with  a  style, 
one  end  of  which  was  pointed  for  that  pur- 
pose, and  the  other  end  rounded  or  flattened, 
for  effacing  or  scraping  out.  Styles  were 
made  of  nearly  all  the  metals,  as  well  as  of 
bone  and  ivory ;  they  were  differently  formed, 
and  resembled  ornamented  skewers ;  the 
common  style  was  iron.  More  anciently, 
the  leaves  of  the  table  book  were  without 
wax,  and  marks  were  made  by  the  iron 
style  on  the  bare  wood.  The  Anglo-Saxon 
style  was  very  handsome.  Dr.  Pe?ge  was 
of  opinion  that  the  well-known  jewel  of 
Alfred,  preserved  in  the  Ashmolean 
museum  at  Oxford,  was  the  head  of  the 
style  sent  by  that  king  with  Gregory's 
Pastoral  to  Athelney.f 

A  gentleman,  whose  profound  knowledge 
of  domestic  antiquities  surpasses  that  of 

'  Johnson. 

t  Fosbroks's  Encyclopedia  of  Antiquities 


preceding  antiquaries,  and  remains  unri- 
valled by  his  contemporaries,  in  his  "  Illus- 
trations of  Shakspeare,"  notices  Hamlet's 
expression,  "  My  tables, — meet  it  is  I  set 
it  down."  On  that  passage  he  observes, 
that  the' Roman  practice  of  writing  on  wax 
tablets  with  a  style  was  continued  through 
the  middle  ages ;  and  that  specimens  of 
wooden  tables,  filled  with  wax,  and  con- 
structed in  the  fourteenth  century,  were 
preserved  in  several  of  the  monastic  libra- 
ries in  France.  Some  of  these  consisted  of 
as.  many  as  twenty  pages,  formed  into  a 
book  by  means  of  parchment  bands  glued 
to  the  backs  of  the  leaves.  He  says  that 
in  the  middle  ages  there  were  table  books 
of  ivory,  and  sometimes,  of  late,  in  the  form 
of  a  small  portable  book  with  leaves  and 
clasps ;  and  he  transfers  a  figure  of  one  of 
the  latter  from  an  old  work*  to  his  own  : 
it  resembles  the  common  "  slate-books" 
still  sold  in  the  stationers'  shops.  He  pre- 
sumes that  to  such  a  table  book  the  arch- 
bishop of  York  alludes  in  the  second  part 
of  King  Henry  IV., 

"  And  therefore  will  he  wipe  his  tables  clean 
•      And  keep  no  tell  tale  to  his  memory." 

As  in  the  middle  ages  there  were  table- 
books  with  ivory  leaves,  this  gentleman 
remarks  that,  in  Chaucer's  "  Sompnour's 
Tale,"  one  of  the  friars  is  provided  with 

"  A  pair  of  tables  all  of  ivory, 
And  a  pointel  ypolished  fetishly, 
And  wrote  alway  the  names,  as  he  stood, 
Of  alle  folk  that  yave  hem  any  good." 

He  instances  it  as  remarkable,  that  neither 
public  nor  private  museums  furnished  spe- 
cimens of  the  table  books,  common  in 
Shakspeare's  time.  Fortunately,  this  ob- 
servation is  no  longer  applicable. 

A  correspondent,  understood  to  be  Mr. 
Douce,  in  Dr.  Aikin's  "  Athenaeum,''  sub- 
sequently says,  "  I  happen  to  possess  a 
table-book  of  Shakspeare's  time.  It  is  a 
little  book,  nearly  square,  being  three  inches 
wide  and  something  less  than  four  in  length, 
bound  stoutly  in  calf,  and  fastening  with 
four  strings  of  broad,  strong,  brown  tape. 
The  title  as  follows  :  '  Writing  Tables,  with 
a  Kalender  for  xxiiii  yeeres,  with  sundrie 
necessarie  rules.  The  Tables  made  by 
Robert  Triple.  London,  Imprinted  for  the 
Company  of  Stationers.'  The  tables  ars 
inserted  immediately  after  the  almanack. 
At  first  sight  they  appear  like  what  we 
call  asses-skin,  the  colour  being  precisely 

•  Gesner  De  rerum  fossilium  figuris,  &c.  Tigw.  15«- 
12mo. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


Cfje 


ear. 


HAGMAN-HEIGH. 

Anciently   on   new  year's   day   the  Ro- 

mans were  accustomed  to  carry  small  pre- 

sents, as  new  year's  gifts,  to  the  senators, 

under  whbse  protection  they  were  severally 

placed.     In   the   reigns   of  the   emperors, 

they  flocked  in  such  numbers  with  valuable 

ones,  that  various  decrees  were  made  to 

abolish    the    custom  ;    though   it    always 

continued  among  that  people.   The  Romans 

who  settled  in  Britain,  or  the  families  con- 

nected with  them  by  marriage,  introduced 

these  new  year's  gifts  among  our  forefathers, 

who  got  the  habit  of  making  presents,  even 

to  the  magistrates.     Some  of  the  fathers  of 

the  church  wrote  against  them,  as  fraught 

with  the  greatest  abuses,  and  the  magistrates 

were  forced  to  relinquish  them.     Besides 

the   well-known  anecdote   of  sir  Thomas 

More,   when   lord   chancellor,*   many   in- 

stances might  be  adduced  from  old  records, 

of  giving  a  pair  of  gloves,  some  with  "  lin- 

ings," and  others  without.     Probably  from 

thence  has  been  derived  the  fashion  of  giv- 

ing a  pair  of  gloves  upon  particular  occa- 

sions, as  at  marriages,  funerals,  &c.     New 

year's  gifts  continue   to  be  received   and 

given  by  all  ranks  of  people,  to  commemo- 

rate the  sun's  return,  and  the  prospect  of 

spring,  when  the  gifts  of  nature  are  shared 

by  all.    Friends  present  some  small  tokens 

of  esteem  to  each  other  —  husbands  to  their 

wives,  and  parents  to  their  children.     The 

custom  keeps  up  a  cheerful  and  friendly 

intercourse  among  acquaintance,  and  leads 

to  that  good-humour  and  mirth  so  necessary 

to  the  spirits  in  this  dreary  season.    Chan- 

dlers send   as   presents   to  their  customers 

large  mould  candles  ;  grocers  give  laisins, 

to  make  a  Christmas  pudding,  or  a  pack  of 

cards,  to  assist  in  spending  agreeably  the 

long  evenings.     In  barbers'  shops  "  thrift- 

box,"  as  it  is  called,  is  put  by  the  appren- 

tice boys  against  the  wall,  and  every  cus- 

tomer, according   to  his   inclination,  puts 

something  in.     Poor  children,  and  old  in- 

firm persons,  beg,  at  the  doors  of  the  cha- 

ritable, a  small   pittance,   which,   though 

collected    in  small  sums,   yet,   when   put 

together,  forms  to  them  a  little  treasure; 

so  that  every  heart,  in  all  situations  of  life, 

beats  with  joy  at  the  nativity  of  his  Saviour. 

The  flagman  Heigh   is   an  old  custom 

observed  in  Yorkshire  on  new  year's  eve,  as 

appertaining  to  the  season.    The  keeper  of 

the  pinfold  goes  round  the  town,  attended 

•  Every-Day  Book,  i.  9. 


by  a  rabble  at  his  heels,  and  knocking  at 
certain  doors,  sings  a  barbarous  song,  be- 
ginning with — 

"  To-night  it  is  the  new  year's  eight,  to-morrow  is 

the  day ; 

We  are  come  about  for  our  right  and  for  our  ray, 
As  we  us'd  to  dp  in  old  king  Henry's  day  : 
Sing,  fellows,  sing,  Hagman  ti'eigft,"  &c. 

The  song  always  concludes  with  "  wish- 
ing a  merry  Christmas  and  a  happy  new 
year."  When  wood  was  chiefly  used  as 
fuel,  in  heating  ovens  at  Christmas,  this  was 
the  most  appropriate  season  for  the  hagman, 
or  wood-cutter,  to  remind  his  customers  of 
his  services,  and  to  solicit  alms.  The  word 
hag  is  still  used  in  Yorkshire,  to  signify  a 
wood.  The  "  hagg"  opposite  to  Easby 
formerly  belonged  to  the  abbey,  to  supply 
them  with  fuel.  Hagman  may  be  a  name 
compounded  from  it.  Some  derive  it  from 
the  Greek  Ayiapwn,  the  holy  month,  when 
the  festivals  of  the  church  for  our  Saviour's 
birth  were  celebrated.  Formerly,  on  the 
last  day  of  the  year,  the  monks  and  friars 
used  to  make  a  plentiful  harvest,  by  begging 
from  door  to  door,  and  reciting  a  kind  of 
carol,  at  the  end  of  every  stave  of  which 
they  introduced  the  words  "  agia  mene," 
alluding  to  the  birth  of  Christ.  A  very 
different  interpretation,  however,  was  given 
to  it  by  one  John  Dixon,  a  Scotch  presby- 
terlan  minister,  when  holding  forth  against 
this  custom  in  one  of  his  sermons  at  Kelso. 
"Sirs,  do  you  know  what  the  hagman  sig- 
nifies ?  It  is  the  devil  to  be  in  the  house  ; 
that  is  the  meaning  of  its  Hebrew  original."* . 


SONNET 

ON    THE    NEW    YEAR. 

When  we  look  back  on  hours  long  past  away. 
And  every  circumstance  of  joy,  or  woe 
That  goes  to  make  this  strange  beguiling  show, 

Call'd  life,  as  though  it  were  of  yesterday, 

We  start  to  learn  our  quickness  of  decay. 
Still  flies  unwearied  Time ; — on  still  we  go 
And  whither  ? — Unto  endless  weal  or  woe, 

As  we  have  wrought  our  parts  in  this  brief  play. 

Yet  many  have  I  seen  whose  thin  blanched  locks 
But  ill  became  a  head  where  Folly  dwelt,. 

Who  having  past  this  storm  with  all  its  shocks, 
Had  nothing  learnt  from  what  they  saw  or  felt: 

Brave  spirits  !  that  can  look,  with  heedless  eye, 

On  doom  unchangeable,  and  tixt  eternity. 


•  Clarkson's  History  of  Richmond,  cited  by  a  cor- 
respondent, A.  B. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


10 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

The  following  letter,  written  by  Horace 
Walpole,  in  relation  to  the  tombs,  is  curious. 

Dr. ,  whom  he  derides,  was  Dr.  Za- 

chary  Pearce,  dean  of  Westminster,  and 
editor  of  Longinus,  &c. 

Strawberry-hill,  1761. 

I  heard  lately,  that  Dr. ,  a  very 

learned  personage,  had  consented  to  let  the 
tomb  of  Aylmer  de  Valence,  earl  of  Pem- 
broke, a  very  great  personage,  be  removed 
for  Wolfe's  monument ;  that  at  first  he  had 
objected,  but  was  wrought  upon  by  being 
told  that  hight  Aylmer  was  a  knight  tem- 
plar, a  very  wicked  set  of  people  as  his  lord- 
ship had  heard,  though  he  knew  nothing  of 
them,  as  they  are  not  mentioned  by  Longi- 
nus. I  own  I  thought  this  a  made  story, 
and  wrote  to  his  lordship,  expressing  my 
concern  that  one  of  the  finest  and  most 
ancient  monuments  in  the  abbey  should  be 
removed ;  and  begging,  if  it  was  removed, 
that  he  would  bestow  it  on  me,  who  would 
erect  and  preserve  it  here.  After  a  fort- 
night's deliberation,  the  bishop  sent  me  an 
answer,  civil  indeed,  and  commending  my 
zeal  for  antiquity !  but  avowing  the  story 
under  his  own  hand.  He  said,  that  at  first 
they  had  taken  Pembroke's  tomb  for  a 
knight  templar's; — observe,  that  not  only 
the  man  who  shows  the  tombs  names  it 
every  day,  but  that  there  is  a  draught  of  it 
at  large  in  Dart's  Westminster ; — that  upon 
discovering  whose  it  was,  he  had  been  very 
unwilling  to  consent  to  the  removal,  and  at 
last  had  obliged  Wilton  to  engage  to  set  it 
up  within  ten  feet  of  where  it  stands  at  pre- 
sent. His  lordship  concluded  with  congra- 
tulating me  on  publishing  learned  authors 
at  my  press.  I  don't  wonder  that  a  man 
who  thinks  Lucan  a  learned  author,  should 
mistake  a  tomb  in  his  own  cathedral.  If  I 
had  a  mind  to  be  angry,  I  could  complain 
with  reason, — as  having  paid  forty  pounds 
for  ground  for  my  mother's  funeral — that  the 
chapter  of  Westminster  sell  their  church 
over  and  over  again  :  the  ancient  monu- 
ments tumble  upon  one's  head  through 
th<M-  neglect,  as  one  of  them  did,  and  killed 
a  man  at  lady  Elizabeth  Percy's  funeral ; 
and  they  erect  new  waxen  dolls  of  queen 
Elizabeth,  &c.  to  draw  visits  and  money 
from  the  mob. 


a&fojjrapftfral  jlemorantJa. 

COMETARY  INFLUENCE. 
Brantome   relates,  that   the   duchess  of 


Angouleme,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  being 
awakened  during  the  night,  she  was  sur- 
prised at  an  extraordinary  brightness  which 
illuminated  her  chamber ;  apprehending  it 
to  be  the  fire,  she  reprimanded  her  women 
for  having  made  so  large  a  one ;  but  they 
assured  her  it  was  caused  by  the  moon. 
The  duchess  ordered  her  curtains  to  be  un- 
drawn, and  discovered  that  it  was  a  comet 
which  produced  this  unusual  light.  "  Ah  !" 
exclaimed  she,  "  this  is  a  phenomenon 
which  appears  not  to  persons  of  common 
condition.  Shut  the  window,  it  is  a  comet, 
which  announces  my  departure ;  I  must 
prepare  for  death."  The  following  morning 
she  sent  for  her  confessor,  in  the  certainty 
of  an  approaching  dissolution.  The  phy- 
sicians assured  her  that  her  apprehensions 
were  ill  founded  and  premature.  "  If  I  had 
not,"  replied  she,  "  seen  the  signal  for 
death,  I  could  believe  it,  for  I  do  not  feel 
myself  exhausted  or  peculiarly  ill."  On 
the  third  day  after  this  event  she  expired, 
the  victim  of  terror.  Long  after  this  period 
all  appearances  of  the  celestial  bodies,  not 
perfectly  comprehended  by  the  multitude, 
were  supposed  to  indicate  the  deaths  of 
sovereigns,  or  revolutions  in  their  govern- 
ments. 


Two  PAINTERS. 

When  the  duke  d'Aremberg  was  confined 
at  Antwerp,  a  person  was  brought  in  as  a 
spy,  and  imprisoned  in  the  same  place. 
The  duke  observed  some  slight  sketches  by 
his  fellow  prisoner  on  the  wall,  and,  con- 
ceiving they  indicated  talent,  desired  Ru- 
bens, with  whom  he  was  intimate,  and 
by  whom  he  was  visited,  to  bring  with 
him  a  pallet  and  pencils  for  the  painter,  who 
was  in  custody  with  him.  The  materials 
requisite  for  painting  were  given  to  the 
artist,  who  took  for  his  subject  a  group  of 
soldiers  playing  at  cards  in  the  corner  of  a 
prison.  When  Rubens  saw  the  picture,  he 
cried  out  that  it  was  done  by  Brouwer, 
whose  works  he  had  often  seen,  and  as 
often  admired.  Rubens  offered  six  hundred 
guineas  for  it ;  the  duke  would  by  no  means 
part  with  it,  but  presented  the  painter  with 
a  larger  sum.  Rubens  exerted  his  interest, 
and  obtained  the  liberty  of  Brouwer,  by 
becoming  his  surety,  received  him  into  his 
house,  clothed  as  well  as  maintained  him, 
and  took  pains  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
with  his  merit.  But  the  levity  of  Brouwer' s 
temper  would  not  suffer  him  long  to  con- 
sider his  situation  any  better  than  a  state, 
of  confinement ;  he  therefore  quitted  Ru- 
bens, and  died  shortly  afterwards,  in  con- 
sequence of  a  dissolute  course  of  Hfe. 


.THE  TABLE-BOOK. 


12 


&epn$entatuin  of  a  pageant  ®eincle  antr  pap. 


The  state,  and  reverence,  and  show, 
Were  so  attractive,  folks  would  go 
From  all  parts,  ev'ry  year,  to  see 
The*e  pageant-plays  at  Coventry. 


fliis  engravinc  is  from  a  very  curious     Pageants  or  Dramatic  Mysteries,  ancient!* 
print  in  Mr.  Snnrp's  "  Dissertation  on  the     performed  at  Coventry." 


13 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


14 


Coventry  is  distinguished  in  the  history 
of  the  drama,  because,  under  the  title  of 
"  Ludus  Coventriee"  there  exists  a  manu- 
script volume  of  most  curious  early  plays, 
not  yet  printed,  nor  likely  to  be,  unless 
there  are  sixty  persons,  at  this  time  suffici- 
ently concerned  for  our  ancient  literature 
and  manners,  to  encourage  a  spirited  gen- 
tleman to  print  a  limited  number  of  copies. 
If  by  any  accident  the  manuscript  should 
be  destroyed,  these  plays,  the  constant 
theme  of  literary  antiquaries  from  Dugdale 
to  the  present  period,  will  only  be  known 
through  the  partial  extracts  of  writers,  who 
have  sometimes  inaccurately  transcribed 
from  the  originals  in  the  British  Museum.* 

Mr.  Sharp's  taste  and  attainments  qua- 
lifying him  for  the  task,  and  his  residence 
at  Coventry  affording  him  facility  of  re- 
search among  the  muniments  of  the  cor- 
poration, he  has  achieved  the  real  labour 
of  drawing-  from  these  and  other  unexplored 
sources,  a  body  of  highly  interesting 
facts,  respecting  the  vehicles,  characters, 
and  dresses  of  the  actors  in  the  pageants  or 
dramatic  mysteries  anciently  performed  by 
the  trading  companies  of  that  city ;  which, 
together  with  accounts  of  municipal  enter- 
tainments of  a  public  nature,  form  his  meri- 
torious volume. 

Very  little  has  been  known  respecting 
the  stage  "  properties,"  before  the  rise  of 
the  regular  drama,  and  therefore  the  abun- 
dant matter  of  that  nature,  adduced  by  this 
gentleman,  is  peculiarly  valuable.  With 
"  The  Taylors'  and  Shearemens'  Pagant," 
complete  from  the  original  manuscript,  he 
gives  the  songs  and  the  original  music, 
engraved  on  three  plates,  which  is  eminently 
remarkable,  because  it  is,  perhaps,  the  only 
existing  specimen  of  the  melodies  in  the 
old  Mysteries.  There  are  ten  other  plates 
in  the  work ;  one  of  them  represents  the 
club,  or  maul,  of  Pilate,  a  character  in  the 
pageant  of  the  Cappers'  company.  "  By  a 
variety  of  entries  it  appears  he  had  a  club 
or  maul,  stuffed  with  wool ;  and  that  the 
exterior  was  formed  of  leather,  is  authenti- 
cated by  the  actual  existence  of  such  a 
club  or  maul,  discovered  by  the  writer  of 
this  Dissertation,  in  an  antique  chest  within 
the  Cappers'  chapel,  (together  with  an  iron 

»  By  a  notice  in  Mr.  Sharp's  "  Dissertation,"  he  pro- 
poses to  publish  the  "  Coventry  Mysteries,"  with  notes 
and  illustrations,  in  two  vols.  octavo  :  100  copies  on 
royal  paper,  at  three  guineas ;  and  25,  on  imperial 
paper,  at  five  guineas.  Notwithstanding  he  limits-  the 
entire  impression  to  these  125  copies,  and  will  com- 
mence to  print  as  soon  as  the  names  of  sixty  subscribers 
are  sent  to  his  publishers,  it  appears  that  this  small 
number  is  not  yet  complete.  The  fact  is  mentioned 
here,  because  it  will  be  a  reproach  to  the  age  if  such  an 
overture  '.s  &ot  embraced. 


cresset,  and  some  fragments  of  armour,) 
where  it  had  probably  remained  ever  since 
the  breaking  up  of  the  pageant."  The 
subject  of  the  Cappers'  pageant  was  usually 
the  trial  and  crucifixion  of  Christ,  and  the 
descent  into  hell. 

The  pageant  vehicles  were  high  scaffolds 
with  two  rooms,  a  higher  and  a  lower, 
constructed  upon  four  or  six  wheels ;  in 
the  lower  room  the  performers  dressed, 
and  in  the  higher  room  they  played.  This 
higher  room,  or  rather,  as  it  may  be  called, 
the  "  stage,"  was  all  open  on  the  top,  that 
the  beholders  might  hear  and  see.  On  the 
day  of  performance  the  vehicles  were 
wheeled,  by  men,  from  place  to  place, 
throughout  the  city  ;  the  floor  was  strewed 
with  rushes ;  and  to  conceal  the  lower 
room,  wherein  the  performers  dressed, 
cloths  were  hung  round  the  vehicle  :  there 
is  reason  to  believe  that,  on  these  cloths, 
the  subject  of  the  performance  was  painted 
or  worked  in  tapestry.  The  higher  room 
of  the  Drapers'  vehicle  was  embattled,  and 
ornamented  with  carved  work,  and  a  crest; 
the  Smiths'  had  vanes,  burnished  and 
painted,  with  streamers  flying. 

In  an  engraving  which  is  royal  quarto, 
the  size  of  the  work,  Mr.  Sharp  has  laud- 
ably endeavoured  to  convey  a  clear  idea  of 
the  appearance  of  a  pageant  vehicle,  and 
of  the  architectural  appearance  of  the  houses 
in  Coventry,  at  the  time  of  performing  the 
Mysteries.  So  much  of  that  engraving  as  re- 
presents the  vehicle  is  before  the  reader  on 
the  preceding  page.  The  vehicle,  supposed 
to  be  of  the  Smiths'  company,  is  stationed 
near  the  Cross  in  the  Cross-cheaping,  and 
the  time  of  action  chosen  is  the  period  when 
Pilate,  on  the  charges  of  Caiphas  and  Annas, 
is  compelled  to  give  up  Christ  for  execu- 
tion. Pilate  is  represented  on  a  throne, 
or  chair  of  state;  beside  him  stands  his  son 
with  a  scoptre  and  poll-axe,  and  beyond 
the  Saviour  are  the  two  high  priests ;  the 
two  armed  figures  behind  are  knights.  The 
pageant  cloth  bears  the  symbols  of  the 
passion. 

Besides  the  Coventry  Mysteries  and  other 
matters,  Mr.  Sharp  notices  those  of  Chester, 
and  treats  largely  on  the  ancient  setting  of 
the  watch  on  Midsummer  and  St.  John's 
Eve,  the  corporation  giants,  morris  dancers, 
minstrels,  and  waites. 


I  could  not  resist  the  very  fitting  op- 
portunity on  the  opening  of  the  new  year, 
and  of  the  Table  Book  together,  to  introduce 
a  memorandum,  that  so  important  an  ac- 
cession has  accrued  to  our  curious  litcra- 


if, 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


16 


ture,  as  Mr.  Sharp's  "  Dissertation  on  the 
Coventry  Mysteries." 


BOOKS. 


•  Give  me 


"  THE  THING  TO  A  T." 
A  young  man,  brought  up  in  the  city  of 
London  to  the  business  of  an  undertaker, 
went  to  Jamaica  to  better  his  condition. 
Business  flourished,  and  he  wrote  to  his 
father  in  Bishopsgate-street  to  send  him, 
with  a  quantity  of  black  and  grey  cloth, 
twenty  gross  of  black  Tacks.  Unfortu- 
nately he  had  omitted  the  top  to  hisT,  and 
the  order  stood  twenty  gross  of  black  Jacks, 
His  correspondent,  on  receiving  the  letter, 
recollected  a  man,  near  Fleet-market,  who 
made  quart  and  pint  tin  pots,  ornamented 
with  painting,  and  which  were  called  black 
Jacks,  and  to  him  he  gave  the  order 
for  the  twenty  gross  of  black  Jacks.  The 
maker,  surprised,  said,  he  had  not  so  many 
ready,  but  would  endeavour  to  complete 
the  order  ;  this  was  done,  and  the  articles 
were  shipped.  The  undertaker  received 
them  with  other  consignments,  and  was 
astonished  at  the  mistake.  A  friend,  fond 
of  speculation,  offered  consolation,  by  pro- 
posing to  purchase  the  whole  at  the  invoice 
price.  The  undertaker,  glad  to  get  rid  of 
an  article  he  considered  useless  in  that  part 
of  the  world,  took  the  offer.  His  friend 
immediately  advertised  for  sale  a  number 
of  fashionable  punch  vases  just  arrived  from 
England,  and  sold  the  jacks,  gaining  200 
per  cent. ! 

The  young  undertaker  afterwards  dis- 
eoursing  upon  his  father's  blunder,  was 
*old  by  his  friend,  in  a  jocose  strain,  to 
crder  a  gross  of  warming-pans,  and  see 
whether  the  well-informed  correspondents 
in  London  would  have  the  sagacity  to  con-' 
sider  such  articles  necessary  in  the  latitude 
of  nine  degrees  north.  The  young  man 
laughed  at  the  suggestion,  but  really  put 
in  practice  the  joke.  He  desired  his  father 
in  his  next  letter  to  send  a  gross  of  warm- 
ing-pans, which  actually,  and  to  the  great 
surprise  of  the  son,  reached  the  island  of 
Jamaica.  What  to  do  with  this  cargo  he 
knew  not.  His  friend  again  became  a  pur- 
chaser at  prime  cost,  and  having  knocked 
off  the  covers,  informed  the  planters,  that 
he  had  just  imported  a  number  of  newly- 
constructed  sugar  ladles.  The  article  under 
that  name  sold  rapidly,  and  returned  a 
large  profit.  The  parties  returned  to  Eng- 
Jand  with  fortunes,  and  often  told  the  story 
of  the  black  jacks  and  warming-pans  over 
the  bottle,  adding,  that  "  Nothing  is  lost  in 
a  good  market." 


Leave  to  enjoy  myself.    That  place,  that  does 

Contain  my  books,  the  best  companions,  is 

To  me  a  glorious  court,  where  hourly  I 

Converse  with  the  old  sages  and  philosophers ; 

And  sometimes  for  variety,  I  confer 

With  kings  and  emperors,  and  weigh  their  counsels; 

Calling  their  victories,  if  unjustly  got, 

Unto  a  strict  account;  and  in  my  fancy, 

Deface  their  ill-placed  statues.    Can  I  then 

Part  with  such  constant  pleasures,  to  embrace 

Uncertain  vanities  ?    No  :  be  it  your  care 

To  augment  a  heap  of  wealth :  it  shall  be  mine 

To  increase  in  knowledge.  FLETCHER. 

IMAGINATION. 

Imagination  enriches  every  thing.  A 
great  library  contains  not  only  books,  but 
"  the  assembled  souls  of  all  that  men  held 
wise."  The  moon  is  Homer's  and  Shak- 
speare's  moon,  as  well  as  the  one  we  look 
at.  The  sun  comes  out  of  his  chamber  in 
the  east,  with  a  sparkling  eye,  "  rejoicing 
like  a  bridegroom."  The  commonest  thing 
becomes  like  Aaron's  rod,  that  budded. 
Pope  called  up  the  spirits  of  the  Cabala  to 
wait  upon  a  lock  of  hair,  and  justly  gave  it 
the  honours  of  a  constellation ;  for  he  has 
hung  it,  sparkling  for  ever,  in  the  eyes  of 
posterity.  A  common  meadow  is  a  sorry 
thing  to  a  ditcher  or  a  coxcomb ;  but  by  the 
help  of  its  dues  from  imagination  and  the 
love  of  nature,  the  grass  brightens  for  us, 
the  air  soothes  us,  we  feel  as  we  did  in  the 
daisied  hours  of  childhood.  Its  verdures, 
its  sheep,  its  hedge-row  elms, — all  these, 
and  all  else  which  sight,  and  sound,  and 
association  can  give  it,  are  made  to  furnish 
a  treasure  of  pleasant  thoughts.  Even 
brick  and  mortar  are  vivified,  as  of  old  at 
the  harp  of  Orpheus.  A  metropolis  be- 
comes no  longer  a  mere  collection  of  houses 
or  of  trades.  It  puts  on  all  the  grandeur 
of  its  history,  and  its  literature ;  its  tow- 
ers, and  rivers  ;  its  ait,  and  jewellery,  and 
foreign  wealth ;  its  multitude  of  human 
beings  all  intent  upon  excitement,  wise  or 
yet  to  learn  ;  the  huge  and  sullen  dignity 
of  its  canopy  of  smoke  by  day;  the  wide 
gleam  upwards  of  its  ligfited  lustre  at  night- 
time ;  and  the  noise  of  its  many  chariots, 
heard,  at  the  same  hour,  when  the  wind  sets 
gently  towards  some  quiet  suburb. — Leigh 
Hunt. 


ACTORS. 

Madame  Rollan,  who  died  in  1785,  in 
the  seventy-fifth  year  of  her  age,  was  a 
principal  dancer  on  Covent-garden  stage  in 


17 


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13 


1731,  and  followed  her  profession,  by  pri- 
vate teaching,  to  the  last  year  of  her  life. 
She  had  so  much  celebrity  in  her  day,  that 
having  one  evening  sprained  her  ancle,  no 
less  an  actor  than  Quin  was  ordered  by  the 
manager  to  make  an  apology  to  the  audi- 
ence for  her  not  appearing  in  the  dance. 
Quin,  who  looked  upon  all  dancers  as  "  the 
mere  garnish  of  the  stage,''  at  first  de- 
murred ;  but  being  threatened  with  a  for- 
feiture, he  growlingly  came  forward,  and  in 
his  coarse  way  thus  addressed  the  audience : 

"  Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 
"  I  am  desired  by  the  manager  to  inform 
you,  that  the  dance  intended  for  this  night 
is  obliged  to  be  postponed,  on  account  of 
mademoiselle  Rollan  having  dislocated  her 
ancle  :  I  wish  it  had  been  her  neck." 

In  Quin's  time  Hippesley  was  the  Roscius 
of  low  comedy ;  he  had  a  large  scar  on  his 
cheek,  occasioned  by  being  dropped  into 
the  fire,  by  a  careless  nurse,  when  an  in- 
fant, which  gave  a  very  whimsical  cast  to 
his  features.  Conversing  with  Quin  con- 
cerning his  son,  he  told  him,  he  had  some 
thoughts  of  bringing  him  on  the  stage. 
"  Oh,"  replied  the  cynic,  "  if  that  is  your 
intention,  t  think  it  is  high  time  you  should 
burn  his  face." 

On  one  of  the  first  nights  of  the  opera 
of  Cymon  at  Drury-lane  theatre,  when  the 
late  Mr.  Vernon  began  the  last  air  in  the 
fourth  act,  which  runs, 

"  Torn  from  me,  torn  from  me,  which  way  did  they 
take  her  ?" 

a  dissatisfied  musical  critic  immediately 
answered  the  actor's  interrogation  in  the 
following  words,  and  to  the  great  astonish- 
ment of  the  audience,  in  the  exact  tune  of 
the  air, 

"  Why  towards  Long-acre,  towards  Long-acre." 

This  unexpected  circumstance  naturally 
embarrassed  poor  Vernon,  but  in  a  moment 
recovering  himself,  he  sung  in  rejoinder, 
the  following  words,  instead  of  the  author's  : 

"  Ho,  ho,  did  they  so, 

Then  I'll  soon  overtake  her, 
I'll  soon  overtake  her." 

Vernon  then  precipitately  made  his  exit 
amidst  the  plaudits  of  the  whole  house. 

Imne  department 

POTATOES. 

If  potatoes,  how  much  soever  frosted, 
be  only  carefully  excluded  from  the  atmo- 
spheric air,  and  the  pit  not  opened  until 


some  time  after  the  frost  has  entirely  sub- 
sided, they  will  be  found  not  to  have  us- 
tained  the  slightest  injury.  This  is  on 
account  of  their  not  having  been  exposed 
to  a  sudden  change,  and  thawing  gradually. 
A  person  inspecting  his  potato  heap, 
which  had  been  covered  with  turf,  found 
them  so  frozen,  that,  on  being  moved,  they 
rattled  like  stones  :  he  deemed  them  irre- 
coverably lost,  and,  replacing  the  turf,  left 
them,  as  he  thought,  to  their  fate.  He 
was  not  less  surprised  than  pleased,  a  con- 
siderable time  afterwards,  when  he  disco- 
vered that  his  potatoes,  which  he  had  given 
up  for  lost,  had  not  suffered  the  least  de- 
triment, but  were,  in  all  respects,  remark- 
ably fine,  except  a  few  near  the  spot  which 
had  been  uncovered.  If  fanners  keep  their 
heaps  covered  till  the  frost  entirely  disap- 
pears, they  will  find  their  patience  amply 
rewarded. 


LOST  CHILDREN. 

The  Gresham  committee  having  humanely 
provided  a  means  of  leading  to  the  discovery 
of  lost  or  strayed  children,  the  following 
is  a  copy  of  the  bill,  issued  in  consequence 
of  their  regulation  :  — 

To  THE  PUBLIC.  . 

London. 

If  persons  who  may  have  lost  a  child,  or 
found  one,  in  the  streets,  will  go  with  a 
written  notice  to  the  Royal  Exchange,  they 
will  find  boards  fixed  up  near  the  medicine 
shop,  for  the  purpose  of  posting  up  such 
notices,  (free  of  expense.)  By  fixing  their 
notice  at  this  place,  it  is  probable  the 
child  will  be  restored  to  its  afflicted  parents 
on  the  same  day  it  may  have  been  missed. 
The  children,  of  course,  are  to  be  taken 
care  of  in  the  parish  where  they  are  found 
until  their  homes  are  discovered. 

From  the  success  which  has,  within  a 
short  time,  been  found  to  result  from  the 
immediate  posting  up  notices  of  this  sort, 
there  can  be  little  doubt,  when  the  know- 
ledge of  the  above-mentioned  boards  is 
general,  but  that  many  children  will  be 
speedily  restored.  It  is  recommended  that 
a  bellman  be  sent  round  the  neighbourhood, 
as  heretofore  has  been  usually  done. 

Persons  on  receiving  this  paper  are  re- 
quested to  fix  it  up  in  their  shop-window, 
or  other  conspicuous  place. 

The  managers  of  Spa  -  fields  chapel 
improving  upon  the  above  hint,  caused 


19 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


a  board  to  be  placed  in  front  of  their  chapel 
for  the  same  purpose,  and  printed  bills  which 
can  be  very  soon  filled  up,  describing  the 
child  lost  or  found,  in  the  following 
forms  : — 

CHILD  FOUND. 
Sex  Age 

Name 

May  be  heard  of  at 
r Farther  particulars 

The  severe  affliction  many  parents  suffer 
by  the  loss  of  young  children,  should  in- 
duce parish  officers,  and  others,  in  popu- 
lous neighbourhoods,  to  adopt  a  plan  so 
well  devised  to  facilitate  the  restoration  of 
strayed  children. 


CHILD  LOST. 

Sex  Age 

Name 
Residence 
Farther  particulars 


TICKET  PORTERS. 

By  AN  ACT  of  common  council  of  the  city 
of  London,  Hey  gate,  mayor,  1823,  the 
ticket  porters  are  not  to  exceed  five  hun- 
dred. 

A  ticket  porter,  when  plying  or  working, 
is  to  wear  his  ticket  so  as  to  be  plainly 
seen,  under  a  penalty  of  2».  6d.  for  each 
offence. 

No  ticket  porter  is  to  apply  for  hire  in 
any  place  but  on  the  stand,  appointed  by 
the  acts  of  common  council,  or  within  six 
yards  thereof,  under  a  penalty  of  5s. 


FARES  OF  TICKET-PORTERS. 

For 
e  very- 
half 
mile 
farther. 

For  any  Package,  Letter,  8cc.  not  ex- 
ceed ing  56  Ibs 
Above     56  Ibs.  and    not    exceeding 
112  Ibs.          .         .         .       .. 
Above    112  Ibs.  and  not   exceeding 
168  Ibs  

Qr. 

Mile. 

Half 
Mile. 

One 
Mile. 

1* 

Mile. 

Two 

Miles. 

*.    d. 
0     4 
0     6 
0     8 

*.    d. 
0     6 
0     9 
1     0 

».    d. 
0     9 
1      0 

1      6 

*.    d. 

I     0 
1     6 
2     0 

*.    d. 
1      6 
2     0 
2     6 

».    d. 
0     6 
0     9 
1     0 

For  every  parcel  above  14  Ibs.  which  they  may  have  to  bring  back,  they  are 
allowed  half  the  above  fares. 

A  ticket  porter  not  to  take  more  than  one 
ob  at  a  time,  penalty  2*.  6d. 

Seven,  or  more,  rulers  of  the  society,  to 
constitute  a  court. 

The  governor  of  the  society,  with  the. 
court  of  rulers,  to  make  regulations,  and 
annex  reasonable  penalties  for  the  breach 
thereof,  not  exceeding  20*.  for  each  offence, 
or  three  months'  suspension.  They  may  dis- 
charge porters  who  persist  in  breach  of 
their  orders. 

The  court  of  rulers  to  hear  and  determine 
complaints  in  absence  of  the  governor. 

Any  porter  charging  more  than  his  re- 
gular fare,  finable  on  conviction  to  the 
extent  of  20s.,  by  the  governor,  or  the  court 
of  rulers. 

Persons  employing  any  one  within  the 
city,  except  their  own  servants  or  ticket 
porters,  are  liable  to  be  prosecuted. 


OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  one  of 

Richard  Symons's  Pocket-books,  preserved 

amongst  the  Harleian  MSS.  in  the  British 

Museum,  No.  991.     "At  the  marriage  of 


his  daughter  to  Rich,  in  Nov.  1657,  the 
lord  protector  threw  about  sack-posset 
among  all  the  ladyes  to  soyle  their  rich 
cloaths,  which  they  tooke  as  a  favour,  and 
also  wett  sweetmeats;  and  daubed  all  the 
stooles  where  »hey  were  to  sit  with  wett 
sweetmeats ;  and  pulled  off  Rich  his  pe- 
ruque,  and  would  have  thrown  it  into  the 
fire,  but  did  not,  yet  he  sate  upon  it.'* 

OLD  WOMEN. 

De  Foe  remarks  in  his  "  Protestant 
Monastery,"  that  "  If  any  whimsical  or 
ridiculous  story  is  told,  'tis  of  an  Old  Wo- 
man. If  any  person  is  awkward  at  his 
business  or  any  thing  else,  he  is  called  an 
Old  IVoman  forsooth.  Those  were  brave 
days  for  young  people,  when  they  could 
swear  the  old  ones  out  of  their  lives,  and 
get  a  woman  hanged  or  burnt  only  for 
being  a  little  too  old — and,  as  a  warning 
to  all  ancient  persons,  who  should  dare  to 
live  longer  than  the  young  ones  think  con- 
venient." 

DTF.L  WITH  A  BAG. 
Two  gentlemen,    one   a  Spaniard,  and 
the   other   a   German,   who   were   recom- 


THE  TABLE  BOOK, 


22 


mended,  by  their  birth  and  services,  to 
the  emperor  Maximilian  II.,  both  courted 
his  daughter,  the  fair  Helene  Schar- 
fequinn,  in  marriage.  This  prince,  after 
a  long  delay,  one  day  informed  them, 
that  esteeming  them  equally,  and  not  being 
able  to  bestow  a  preference,  he  should 
leave  it  to  the  force  and  address  of  the 
claimants  to  decide  the  question.  He  did 
not  mean,  however,  to  risk  the  loss  of  one 
or  the  other,  or  perhaps  of  both.  He 
could  not,  therefore,  permit  them  to  en- 
counter with  offensive  weapons,  but  had 
ordered  a  large  bag  to  be  produced.  It 
was  his  decree,  that  whichever  succeeded 
in  putting  his  rival  into  this  bag  should 
obtain  the  hand  of  his  daughter.  This 
singular  encounter  between  the  two  gen- 
tlemen took  place  in  the  face  of  the  whole 
court.  The  contest  lasted  for  more  than  an 
hour.  At  length  the  Spaniard  yielded,  and 
the  German,  Ehberhard,  baron  de  Talbert, 
having  planted  his  rival  in  the  bag,  took  it 
upon  his  back,  and  very  gallantly  laid  it  at 
the  feel  of  his  mistress,  whom  he  espoused 
the  next  day. 

Such  is  the  story,  as  gravely  told  by  M. 
de  St.  Foix.  It  is  impossible  to  say  what 
the  feelings  of  a  successful  combatant  in  a 
duel  may  be,  on  his  having  passed  a  small 
sword  through  the  body,  or  a  bullet  through 
the  thorax,  of  his  antagonist ;  but  might 
he  not  feel  quite  as  elated,  and  more  con- 
soled, on  having  put  is  adversary  "  into  a 
bag?" 

"  A  NEW  MATRIMONIAL  PLAN." 
This  is  the  title  of  a  bill  printed  and  dis- 
tributed four  or  five  years  ago,  and  now 
before  me,  advertising  "  an  establishment 
where  persons  of  all  classes,  who  are  anxious 
to  sweeten  life,  by  repairing  to  the  a/tar  of 
Hymen,  have  an  opportunity  of  meeting 
with  proper  partners."  The  "  plan"  says, 
"  their  personal  attendance  is  not  abso- 
lutely necessary,  a  statement  of  facts  is  all 
that  is  required  at  first."  The  method  is 
simply  this,  for  the  parties  to  become  sub- 
scribers, the  amount  to  be  regulated  ac- 
cording to  circumstances,  and  that  they 
should  be  arranged  in  classes  in  the  fol- 
lowing order,  viz. 

"  Ladies. 

*  1st  Class.  I  am  twenty  years  of  age, 
heiress  to  an  estate  in  the  county 
of  Essex  of  the  value  of  30,000/., 
well  educated,  and  of  domestic 
habits ;  of  an  agreeable,  lively  dis- 
position and  genteel  figure.  Re- 
ligion that  of  my  future  husband. 


"  2d  Class.  I  am  thirty  years  of  age,  a 
widow,  iu  the  grocery  line  in 
London — have  children ;  ot 
middle  stature,  full  made,  fait 
complexion  and  hair,  temper 
agreeable,  worth  3,000/. 

"  3d  Class.  I  am  tall  and  thin,  a  little 
lame  in  the  hip,  of  a  lively  dispo- 
sition, conversable,  twenty  years 
of  age,  live  with  my  father,  who, 
if  I  marry  with  his  consent,  will 
give  me  1,000/. 

"  4th  Class.  I  am  twenty  years  of  age ;  mild 
disposition  and  manners;  allow- 
ed to  be  personable. 

"  5th  Class.  I  am  sixty  years  of  age ;  in- 
come limited  ;  active,  and  rather 
agreeable. 

"  Gentlemen. 

"  1st  Class.  A  young  gentleman  with  dark 
eyes  and  hair  ;  stout  made  ;  well 
educated ;  have  an  estate  of  500/. 
per  annum  in  the  county  of  Kent ; 
besides  10,000/.  in  the  three  per 
cent,  consolidated  annuities  ;  am 
of  an  affable  disposition,  and  very 
affectionate. 

"  2d  Class.  I  am  forty  years  of  age,  tail 
and  slender,  fair  complexion  and 
hair,  well  tempered  and  of  sober 
habits,  have  a  situation  in  the 
Excise  of  300/.  per  annum,  and  a 
small  estate  in  Wales  of  the  an- 
nual value  of  1 50/. 

"  3d  Class.  A  tradesman  in  the  city  of 
Bristol,  in  a  ready-money  busi- 
ness, turning  ISO/,  per  week,  at 
a  profit  of  10/.  per  cent.,  pretty 
well  tempered,  lively,  and  fond 
of  home. 

"  4th  Class.  I  am  fifty-eight  years  of  age ; 
a  widower,  without  incumbrance ; 
retired  from  business  upon  a 
small  income ;  healthy  constitu- 
tion ;  and  of  domestic  habits. 
"  5th  Class.  I  am  twenty-five  years  of  age ; 
a  mechanic,  of  sober  habits ;  in- 
dustrious, and  of  respectable  con- 
nections. 

"  It  is  presumed  that  the  public  will  not 
find  any  difficulty  in  describing  themselves ; 
if  they  should,  they  will  have  the  assistance 
of  the  managers,  who  will  be  in  attendance 
at  the  office,  No.  5,  Great  St.  Helen's, 
Bishopgate-street,  on  Mondays,  Wednes- 
days, and  Fridays,  between  the  hours  of 
eleven  and  three  o'clock. — Please  to  in- 
quire for  Mr.  Jameson,  up  one  pair  of 
stairs.  All  letters  to  be  post  paid. 

"  The  subscribers   are  to  be  furnished 


23 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


with  a  list  of  descriptions,  and  when  one 
occurs  likely  to  suit,  the  parties  may  cor- 
respond ;  and  if  mutually  approved,  the 
interview  may  be  afterwards  arranged. 
Further  particulars  may  be  had  as  above." 
Such  a  strange  device  in  our  own  time, 
for  catching  would-be  lovers,  teems  incredi- 
ble, and  yet  here  is  the  printed  plan,  with 
the  name  and  address  of  the  match-making 
gentleman  you  are  to  inquire  for  "  up  one 
pair  of  stairs.'* 


CLERICAL  LONGEVITY. 

The  following  is  an  authentic  account, 
from  the  "  Antiquarian  Repertory,"  of  the 
incumbents  of  a  vicarage  near  Bridgenorth 
in  Shropshire.  Its  annual  revenue,  till  the 
death  of  the  last  incumbent  here  mentioned, 
was  not  more  than  about  seventy  pounds 
per  annum,  although  it  is  a  very  large  and 
populous  parish,  containing  at  least  twenty 
hamlets  or  townships,  and  is  scarcely  any 
where  less  than  four  or  five  miles  in  dia- 
meter. By  a  peculiar  idiom  in  that  coun- 
try, the  inhabitants  of  this  large  district  are 
Aaid  to  live  "  in  Worfield-home :"  and  the 
adjacent,  or  not  far  distant,  parishes  (each 
of  them  containing,  in  like  manner,  many 
townships,  or  hamlets)  are  called  Claverly, 
or  Clarely-home,  Tatnall-home,  Womburn- 
home,  or,  as  the  terminating  word  is  every 
where  pronounced  in  that  neighbourhood, 
"  whorae." 

"  A  list  of  the  vicars  of  Worfield  in  the 
diocese  of  Lichfield  and  Coventry,  and  in  the 
county  of  Salop,  from  1564  to  1763,  viz. 

"  Demerick,  vicar,  last  popish  priest,  con- 
formed during  the  six  first  years  of  Eliza- 
beth. He  died  1564. 

Barney,  vicar        44  years ;  died  1608. 

Barney,  vicar        56  years ;  died  1664. 

Hancocks,  vicar    42  years;  died  1707. 

A  damson,  vicar     56  years  :  died  1763. 
Only  4  vicars  in  199  years." 


SPELLING  FOR  A  WAKE. 
Proclamation  was  made  a  few  years  ago, 
at  Tewkesbury,  from  a  written  paper,  of 
which  the  following  is  a  copy  : — 

"  HOBNAIL'S  WARE— This  his  to  give 
notis  on  Tusday  next — a  Hat  to  be  playd 
at  bac  sord  fore.  Two  Belts  to  be  tuseld 
fore.  A  plum  cack  to  be  gump  in  bag-s 
fowr.  A  pond  of  backer  to  be  bold  for, 
and  a  showl  to  danc  lot  by  wimen." 


THE  BEAUTIES  OF  SOMERSET. 

A  BALLAD; 

I'm  a  Zummerzetzhire  man, 
Zhew  me  better  if  you  can, 

In  the  North,  Zouth,  East,  or  West ; 
I  waz  born  in  Taunton  Dean, 
Of  all  places  ever  seen 

The  richest  and  the  best.         OLD  BALLAD 


Tote,  Alley  Croker. 

That  Britain's  like  a  precious  gem 

Set  in  the  silver  ocean, 
Our  Shakspeare  sung,  and  none  condemn 

Whilst  most  approve  the  notion,— 
But  various  parts,  we  now  declare, 
Shine  forth  in  various  splendour, 
And  those  bright  beams  that  shine  most  fair, 
The  western  portions  render; — 
O  the  counties,  the  matchless  western  counties, 
Bat  far  the  best, 
Of  all  the  rest, 
Is  Somerset  for  ever. 
For  come  with  me,  and  we'll  survey 

Our  hills  and  vallies  over, 
Our  vales,  where  clear  brooks  bubbling  stray 

Through  meads  of  blooming  clover  ; 
Our  hills,  that  rise  in  giant  pride, 

With  hollow  dells  between  them. 
Whose  sable  forests,  spreading  wide. 
Enrapture  all  who  've  seen  them ; 
O  the  counties,  &c. 

How  eould  I  here  forgetful  be 

Of  all  your  scenes  romantic, 
Our  rugged  rocks,  our  swelling  sea, 

Where  foams  the  wild  Atlantic! 
There's  not  an  Eden  known  to  men 

That  claims  such  admiration, 
A»  lovely  Culbone's  peaceful  glen. 

The  Tempe  of  the  nation  ; 
O  the  counties,  &c. 

To  name  each  beauty  in  my  rhyme 

Would  prove  a  vain  endeavour, 
I'll  therefore  sing  that  cloudless  clime 

Where  Summer  lets  for  ever ; 
Where  ever  dwells  the  Age  of  Gold 

In  fertile  vales  and  sunny, 
Which,  like  the  pronis'd  land  of  old, 

O'erflows  with  milk  and  honey ; 
O  the  counties,  &c. 

But  O !  to  crown  my  county's  worth, 

What  aty  the  rest  surpasses, 
There's  not  a  spot  in  all  the  earth 

Can  boast  such  lovely  lasses  ; 
There's  not  a  spot  beneath  ths  saa 

Where  hearts  are  open'd  wider. 
Then  let  us  toast  them  every  oo«, 

In  bowls  of  native  cider; 
0  the  counties,  &c. 


25 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


2<f 


A  NEW  HYGROMETER. 

A  new  instrument  to  measure  the  de- 
grees of  moisture  in  the  atmosphere,  of 
which  the  following  is  a  description,  was 
invented  by  M.  Baptist  Lendi,  of  St.  Gall : 

In  a  white  flint  bottle  is  suspended  a 
piece  of  metal,  about  the  size  of  a  hazle 
nut,  which  not  only  looks  extremely  beau- 
tiful, and  contributes  to  the  ornament  of  a 
room,  but  likewise  predicts  every  possible 
change  of  weather  twelve  or  fourteen  hours 
before  it  occurs.  As  soon  as  the  metal  is 
suspended  in  the  bottle  with  water,  it 
begins  to  increase  in  bulk,  and  in  ten  or 
twelve  days  forms  an  admirable  pyramid, 
which  resembles  polished  brass ;  and  it 
undergoes  several  changes,  till  it  has  at- 
tained its  full  dimensions.  In  rainy  wea- 
ther, this  pyramid  is  constantly  covered 
with  pearly  drops  of  water;  in  case  of 
thunder  or  hail,  it  will  change  to  the  finest 
red,  and  throw  out  rays ;  in  case  of  wind 
or  fog,  it  will  appear  dull  and  spotted ; 
and  previously  to  snow,  it  will  look  quite 
muddy.  If  placed  in  a  moderate  tempera- 
ture, it  will  require  no  other  trouble  than 
to  pour  out  a  common  tumbler  full  of 
water,  and  to  put  in  the  same  quantity  of 
fresh.  For  the  first  few  days  it  must  not 
be  shaken. 


CALICO  COMPANY. 

A  red  kitten  was  sent  to  the  house  of  a 
linen-draper  in  the  city ;  and,  on  departing 
from  the  maternal  basket,  the  following 
lines  were  written  : — 

THE  RED  KITTEN. 

O  the  red  red  kitten  is  sent  away, 
No  more  on  parlour  hearth  to  play ; 
He  must  live  in  the  draper's  house, 
And  chase  the  rat,  and  catch  the  mouse, 
And  all  day  long  in  silence  go 
Through  bales  of  cotton  and  calico. 

After  the  king  of  England  fam'd, 
The  red  red  kitten  was  Rufus  nam'd. 
And  as  king  Rufas  sported  through 
Thicket  and  brake  of  the  Forest  New, 
The  red  red  kitten  Rufus  so 
Shall  jump  about  the  calico. 

But  as  king  Rufus  chas'd  the  deer, 
And  hunted  the  forest  far  and  near, 
Until  as  he  watch'd  the  jumpy  squirrel, 
He  was  shot  by  Walter  Tyrrel ; 
So,  if  Fate  shall  his  death  ordain, 
Shall  kitten  Rufus  by  dogs  be  slain, 
And  end  his  thrice  three  lives  of  woe 
Among  the  cotton  and  calico. 


SONNET 

TO    A     PRETTY     GIRL     IN    A    PASTRY-COOK** 

SHOP. 

Sweet  Maid,  for  thou  art  maid  of  many  sweet i, 

Behind  thy  oonnter,  lo !  I  see  thee  standing, 
Gaz'd  at  by  wanton  wand'rers  in  the  streets, 

While  cakes,  to  cakes,  thy  pretty  fist  is  handing. 
Light  as  a  puff  appears  thy  every  motion, 

Yet  thy  replies  I've  heard  are  sometimes  tart ; 
I  deem  thee  a  preserve,  yet  I've  a  notion 

That  warm  as  brandied  cherries  is  thy  heart. 
Then  be  not  to  thy  lover  like  an  ict, 

Nor  sour  as  raspberry  vinegar  to  one 
Who  owns  thee  for  a  sugar-plum  so  nice, 

Nicer  than  comfit,  syllabub,  or  bun. 
I  love  thee  more  than  all  the  girls  so  natty, 
I  do,  indeed,  my  sweet,  my  savoury  PATTY. 


"  HOLLY  NIGHT  "  AT  BROUGH. 
For  the  Table  Book, 

The  ancient  custom  of  carrying  the 
"  holly  tree"  on  Twelfth  Night,  at  Brough 
in  Westmoreland,  is  represented  in  the  ac- 
companying engraving. 

Formerly  the  "  Holly-tree"  at  Brough  was 
really  "  holly,"  but  ash  being  abundant, 
the  latter  is  now  substituted.  There  are 
two  head  inns  in  the  town;  which  provide 
for  the  ceremony  alternately,  though  the 
good  townspeople  mostly  lend  their  assist- 
ance in  preparing  the  tree,  to  every  branch 
of  which  they  fasten  a  torch.  About  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  it  is  taken  to  a  con- 
venient part  of  the  town,  where  the  torches 
are  lighted,  the  town  band  accompanying 
and  playing  till  all  is  completed,  when 
it  is  removed  to  the  lower  end  of  the  town ; 
and,  after  divers  salutes  and  huzzas  from 
the  spectators,  is  carried  up  and  down  the 
town,  in  stately  procession,  usually  by  a 
person  of  renowned  strength,  named  Joseph 
Ling.  The  band  march  behind  it,  play- 
ing their  instruments,  and  stopping  every 
time  they  reach  the  town  bridge,  and  the 
cross,  where  the  "  holly"  is  again  greeted 
with  shouts  of  applause.  Many  of  the  in- 
habitants carry  lighted  branches  and  flam- 
beaus ;  and  rockets,  squibs,  &c.  are  dis- 
charged on  the  joyful  occasion.  After  the 
tree  is  thus  carried,  and  the  torches  are 
sufficiently  burnt,  it  is  placed  in  the  middle 
of  the  town,  when  it  is  again  cheered  by 
the  surrounding  populace,  and  is  afterwards 
thrown  among  them.  They  eagerly  watch 
for  this  opportunity  ;  and,  clinging  to  each 
end  of  the  tree,  endeavour  to  carry  it  away 
to  the  inn  they  are  contending  for,  where 
they  are  allowed  their  usual  quantum  of 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


Carrpfng  tfoe  " 


Cm"  at  3Srougf), 


To  every  branch  a  torch  they  tie, 

To  every  torch  a  light  apply ; 

At  each  new  light  send  forth  huzzas 

Till  all  the  tree  is  in  a  blaze ; 

And  then  bear  it  flaming  through  the  to'.- 

With  minstrelsy,  and  rockets  thrown. 


<J.e  and  spirits,  and  pass  a  "  merry  night," 
which  seldom  breaks  up  before  two  in  the 
morning. 

Although  the  origin  of  this  usage  is  lost, 
and  no  tradition  exists  by  which  it  can  be 
traced,  yet  it  may  .not  be  a  strained  surmise 
to  derive  it  from  the  church  ceremony  of 
the  day  when  branches  of  trees  were  carried 
in  procession  to  decorate  the  altars,  in  com- 
memoration of  the  offerings  of  the  Magi, 
whose  names  are  handed  down  to  us  as 
Melchior,  Caspar,  and  Balthasar,  the  pa- 
trons of  travellers.  In  catholic  countries, 
flambeaus  and  torches  always  abound  in 
their  ceremonies  ;  and  persons  residing  in 
the  streets  through  which  they  pass,  testify 
their  zeal  and  piety  by  providing  flambeaus 
at  their  own  expense,  and  bringing  them 
lighted  to  the  doors  of  their  houses. 

W.  H.  H. 


COMMUNICATION!  for  the  Table  Book  addressed  to 
me,  in  a  parcel,  or  under  cover,  to  the  care  of  the  pub- 
lishers, will  be  gladly  received. 

NOTICES  TO  CORRESPONDENTS  will  appear  o»  ths 
wrappers  of  the  monthly  parts  only. 

TUK  TABLE  BOOK,  therefore,  after  the  present  sheet, 
will  be  printed  continuously,  without  matter  of  this 
kind,  or  the  intervention  of  temporary  titles,  unplea- 
sant to  the  eye,  when  the  work  comes  to  be  bound  in 
volumes. 

LASTLY,  because  this  is  the  last  opportunity  of  the 
kind  in  my  power,  I  beg  to  add  that  some  valuable 
papers  which  could  not  be  included  in  the  Every-Day 
Book,  will  appear  in  the  Table  Booh. 

MOBEOVEE  LASTLY,  I  earnestly  solicit  the  immediaU 
activity  of  my  friends,  to  oblige  and  serre  me-  •>- 
sending  any  thing,  and  every  thing  th«y  can  collect  or 
recollect,  which  they  may  suppose  at  all  likely  to  r*s- 
der  my  Table  Booh  instructive,  or  diverting. 
W. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


emigration  of  tfce  mm  from  Cranbount  Cfease,  18?6 


Voi .  I.— 2 


Th»  genial  years  increase  the  timid  herd 
Till  wood  and  pasture  yield  a  scant  supply  ; 

Then  troop  the  deer,  as  at  a  signal  word, 
And  in  long  lines  o'er  barren  downs  they  hie, 

In  search  what  food  far  vallies  may  afford — 
J.e«s  fearing  man,  their  ancient  enemy, 
Than  in  their  native  chate  to  Jtarva  and  die. 


•51 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


The  deer  of  Cranbourn  chase  usually 
average  about  ten  thousand  in  number.  In 
the  winter  of  1826,  they  were  presumed  to 
amount  to  from  twelve  to  fifteen  thousand. 
This  increase  is  ascribed  to  the  unusual 
mildness  of  recent  winters,  and  the  conse- 
quent absence  of  injuries  which  the  animals 
are  subject  to  from  severe  weather. 

In  the  month  of  November,  a  great 
number  of  deer  from  the  woods  and  pas- 
tures of  the  Chase,  between  Gunvile  and 
Ashmore,  crossed  the  narrow  downs  on  the 
western  side,  and  descended  into  the  adja- 
cent parts  of  the  vale  of  Blackmore  in 
quest  of  subsistence.  There  was  a  large 
increase  in  the  number  about  twelve  years 
preceding,  till  the  continued  deficiency  of 
food  occasioned  a  mortality.  Very  soon 
afterwards,  however,  they  again  increased 
and  emigrated  for  food  to  the  vallies,  as  in 
the  present  instance.  At  the  former  period, 
the  greater  part  were  not  allowed  or  were 
unable  to  return. 

The  tendency  of  deer  to  breed  beyond 
the  means  of  support,  afforded  by  parks 
and  other  places  wherein  they  are  kept, 
has  been  usually  regulated  by  converting 
them  into  venison.  This  is  clearly  moie 
humane  than  suffering  the  herds  so  to  en- 
large, that  there  is  scarcely  for  "  every  one 
a  mouthfull,  and  no  one  a  bellyfull."  It  is 
also  better  to  pay  a  good  price  for  good 
venison  in  season,  than  to  have  poor  and 
cheap  venison  from  the  surplus  of  starving 
animals  "  killed  off"  in  mercy  to  the  re- 
mainder, or  in  compliance  with  the  wishes 
of  landholders  whose  grounds  they  invade 
in  their  extremity.  f 

The  emigration  of  the  deer  from  Cran- 
bourn Chase  suggests,  that  as  such  cases 
arise  in  winter,  their  venison  may  be  be- 
stowed with  advantage  on  labourers,  who 
abound  more  in  children  than  in  the  means 
of  providing  for  them;  and  thus  the  sur- 
plus of  the  forest-breed  be  applied  to  the 
support  and  comfort  of  impoverished  hu- 
man beings. 


Cranbourn. 

Cranbourn  is  a  market  town  and  parish  in 
the  hundred  of  Cranbourn,Dorsetshire,about 
12  miles  south-west  from  Salisbury,  and  93 
from  London.  According  to  the  last  census, 
it  contains  367  houses  and  1823  inhabitants, 
ot'  whom  104  are  returned  as  being  em- 
ployed in  trade.  The  parish  includes  a 
circuit  of  40  miles,  and  the  town  is  plea- 
santly situated  in  a  fine  champaign  country 
at  the  north-east  extremity  of  the  county, 
near  Cranbourn  Chase,  which  extends 


almost  to  Salisbury.  Its  market  is  on  a 
Thursday,  it  has  a  cattle  market  in  the 
spring,  and  its  fairs  are  on  St.  Bartholomew's 
and  St.  Nicholas'  days.  It  is  the  capital  of 
the  hundred  to  which  it  gives  its  name,  and 
is  a  vicarage  valued  in  the  king's  books  at 
£6. 13*.  4d.  It  is  a  place  of  high  antiquity, 
famous  in  the  Saxon  and  Norman  times  for 
Us  monastery,  its  chase,  and  its  lords.  The 
monastery  belonged  to  the  Benedictines,  of 
which  the  church  at  the  -%est  end  of  the 
town  was  the  priory.* 

4ffray  in  the  Chase. 
On  the  night  of  the  16th  of  December, 
1 780,  a  severe  battle  was  fought  between 
the  keepers   and  deer-stealers    on  Chettle 
Common,  in  Bursey-stool  Walk.  The  deer- 
stealers  had  assembled  at  Pimperne,  and 
were  headed  by  one  Blandford,  a  sergeant 
of  dragoons,   a  native  of  Pimperne,  then 
quartered  at  Blandford.     They  came  in  the 
night  in  disguise,  armed  with  deadly  offen- 
sive weapons  called  swindgels,  resembling 
flails  to  thresh  corn.     They  attacked  the 
keepers,  who  were  nearly  equal  in  number, 
but  had  no  weapons  but  sticks  and  short 
hangers.     The  first  blow  was  struck  by  the 
leader  of  the  gang,  it  broke  a  knee-cap  of 
the  stoutest  man  in  the  chase,  which  dis- 
abled him  from  joining  in  the  combat,  and 
lamed  him  for  ever.     Another  keeper,  from 
a  blow  with  a  swindgel,  which  broke  three 
ribs,  died  some  time  after.     The  remaining 
keepers   closed  in  upon   their  opponents 
with  their  hangers,  and  one   of  the  dra- 
goon's hands  was  severed  from  the  arm, 
just  above  the  wrist,  and  fell  on  the  ground ; 
the   others   were   also   dreadfully  cut  and 
wounded,  and  obliged  to  surrender.  Bland- 
ford's  arm  was  tightly   bound  with  a  list 
garter  to  prevent  its  bleeding,  and  he  was 
carried  to  the  lodge.     The  Rev.  William 
Chafin,  the  author  of  "  Anecdotes  respect- 
ing   Cranbourn    Chase,"    says,    "  I    saw 
him  there   the    next   day,   and   his   hand 
in   the  window :  as  soon  as  he  was  well 
enough  to  be  removed,  he  was  committed, 
with  his  companions,  to  Dorchester  gaol. 
The  hand  was  buried  in  Pimperne  church- 
yard,   and,    as    reported,    with    the    ho- 
nours of  war.     Several  of  these  offenders 
were   labourers,   daily    employed   by    Mr. 
Beckford,    and    had,    the   preceding   day 
dined  in  his  servants'  hall,  and  from  thence 
went  to  join   a   confederacy  to  rob  theit 
master."  They  were  all  tried,  found  guilty 
and  condemned  to  be  transported  for  seven 
years ;  but,  in  consideration  of  their  great 

*  Hutchins's  Dorset.     Capper. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


suffering  from  their  wounds  in  prison,  the 
humane  judge,  sir  Richard  Perryn,  commu- 
ted the  punishment  to  confinement  for  an 
indefinite  term.  The  soldier  was  not  dis- 
missed from  his  majesty's  service,  but  suf- 
fered to  retire  upon  half-pay,  or  pension  ; 
and  set  up  a  shop  in  London,  which  he 
denoted  a  game-factor's.  He  dispersed 
hand-bills  in  the  public  places,  in  order  to 
get  customers,  and  put  one  into  Mr.  Cha- 
fin's  hand  in  the  arch-way  leading  into 
Lincoln's-inn-square.  "  I  immediately  re- 
cognised him,"  says  Mr.  Chafin,  "  as  he 
did  me ;  and  he  said,  that  if  I  would  deal 
•Kith  him,  he  would  use  me  well,  for  he 
had,  in  times  past,  had  many  hares  and 
pheasants  of  mine ;  and  he  had  the  assur- 
ance to  ask  me,  if  I  did  not  think  it  a  good 
breeding-season  for  game  1" 


Buck-hunting. 

Buck-hunting,  in  former  times,  was  much 
more  followed,  and  held  in  much  greater 
repute,  than  new.  From  letters  in  Mr. 
Chafin's  possession,  dated  in  June  and  July 
1681,  he  infers,  that  the  summers  then  were 
much  hotter  than  in  the  greater  part  o£  the 
last  century.  The  time  of  meeting  at 
Cranbourn  Chase  in  those  days  seems  in- 
variably to  have  been  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
evening ;  it  was  the  custom  of  the  sports- 
men to  take  a  slight  repast  at  two  o'clock, 
and  to  dine  at  the  most  fashionable  hours 
of  the  present  day.  Mr.  Chafin  deemed 
hunting  in  an  evening  well-judged,  and  ad- 
vantageous every  way.  The  deer  were  at 
that  time  upon  their  legs,  and  more  easily 
found ;  they  were  empty,  and  more  able  to 
run,  and  to  show  sport ;  and  as  the  evening 
advanced,  and  the  dew  feM,  the  scent  gra- 
dually improved,  and  the  cool  air  enabled 
the  horses  and  the  hounds  to  recover  their 
wind,  and  go  through  their  work  without 
injury ;  whereas  just  the  reverse  of  this 
would  be  the  hunting  late  in  a  morning. 
What  has  been  mentioned  is  peculiar  to 
Buck-hunting  only. 

<Stag--hunting  is  in  some  measure  a  sum- 
mer amusement  also ;  but  that  chase  is 
generally  much  too  long  to  be  ventured  on 
in  an  evening.  It  would  carry  the  sports- 
man too  far  distant  from  their  homes.  It 
is  absolutely  necessary,  therefore,  in  pur- 
suing the  stag,  to  have  the  whole  day  before 
them. 

It  was  customary,  in  the  last  century, 
for  sportsmen  addicted  to  the  sport  of 
Buck-hunting,  and  who  regularly  followed 
it,  to  meet  every  season  on  the  29th  day  of 
May,  king  Charles's  restoration,  with  oak- 


boughs  in  their  hats  or  caps,  to  show  their 
loyalty,  (velvet  caps  were  chiefly  worn  in 
those  days,  even  by  the  ladies,)  and  t« 
hunt  young  male  deer,  in  order  to  enter  the 
young  hounds,  and  to  stoop  them  to  theit 
right  game,  and  to  get  the  older  ones  in 
wind  and  exercise,  preparatory  to  the  com- 
mencement of  the  buck-killing  season. 

This  practice  was  termed  "  blooding  the 
hounds  ;"  and  the  young,  deer  killed  were 
called  "  blooding-deer,"  and  their  venison 
was  deemed  fit  for  an  epicure.  It  was  re- 
ported, that  an  hind  quarter  of  this  sort  of 
venison,  which  had  been  thoroughly  hunted, 
was  once  placed  on  the  table  before  the 
celebrated  Mr.  Quin,  at  Bath,  who  declared 
it  to  be  the  greatest  luxury  he  ever  met 
with,  and  ate  very  heartily  of  it.  But  this 
taste  seems  not  to  have  been  peculiar  to 
Mr.  Quin;  for  persons  of  high  rank  joined 
in  the  opinion  :  and  even  judges,  when  on 
their  circuits,  indulged  in  the  same  luxury. 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  a  stew- 
ard's old  accompt-book,  found  in  the  noble 
old  mansion  of  Orchard  Portman,  near 
Taunton.  in  Somersetsnire  • 

"  10th  August 

1680. 

Delivered  Sr  William,  in  the 
higher  Orial,  going  a  hunting 
with  the  Judges  £2.  0*.  Orf." 

From  hence,  therefore,  it  appears,  that 
in  those  days-  buck-hunting,  for  there  could 
be  no  other  kind  of  hunting  meant,  was  in 
so  much  repute,  and  so  much  delighted  in, 
that  even  the  judges  could  not  refrain  from 
partaking  in  it  when  on  their  circuits ;  and 
it  seems  that  they  chose  to  hunt  their  own 
venison,  which  they  annually  received  from 
Orchard  park  at  the  time  of  the  assizes. 
"  I  cannot  but  deem  them  good  judges," 
says  Mr.  Chafin,  "  for  preferring  hunted 
venison  to  that  which  had  been  shot.'' 


Other  Sports  of  Cranbourn  Chase. 

Besides  buck-hunting,  which  certainly 
was  the  principal  one,  the  chase  afforded 
other  rural  amusements  to  our  ancestors  in 
former  days.  "  I  am  well  aware,"  Mr. 
Chafin  says,  in  preparing  some  notices  of 
them,  "  that  there  are  many  young  persons 
who  are  very  indifferent  and  care  little 
about  what  was  practised  by  their  ancestors, 
or  how  they  amused  themselves  ;  they  are 
looking  forward,  and  do  not  choose  to  look 
back  :  but  there  may  be  some  not  so  indif- 
ferent, and  to  whom  a  relation  of  the  sports 
of  the  field  in  the  last  century  may  not  be 
displeasing."  These  sports,  in  addition 


THE  TABLE  BOOK 


36 


to   hunting,   were  hawking,  falconry,    and 
cocking. 

Packs  of  hounds  were  always  kept  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  chase,  and  hunted 
there  in  the  proper  seasons.  There  were 
three  sorts  of  animals  of  chase  besides  deer, 
viz.  foxes,  hares,  and  mertincats  :  the  race 
of  the  latter  are  i>/«rly  extinct ;  their  skins 
were  too  valuable  for  them  to  be  suffered 
to  exist.  At  that  time  no  hounds  were 
kept  and  used  for  any  particular  sort  of 
game  except  the  buck-hounds,  but  they 
hunted  casually  the  first  that  came  in  their 
way. 


First  Pack  of  Fox-hounds. 
The  first  real  steady  pack  of  fox-hounds 
•stablished  in  the  western  part  of  England 
was  by  Thomas  Fownes,  Esq.  of  Stepleton, 
in  Dorsetshire,  about  1730.  They  were  as 
handsome,  and  fully  as  complete  in  every 
respect,  as  any  of  the  most  celebrated  packs 
of  the  present  day.  The  owner  was  obliged 
to  dispose  of  them,  and  they  were  sold  to 
Mr.  Bowes,  in  Yorkshire,  the  father  of  the 
late  lady  Strathmore,  at  an  immense  price. 
They  were  taken  into  Yorkshire  by  their 
own  attendants,  and,  after  having  been 
viewed  and  much  admired  in  their  kennel, 
a  day  was  fixed  for  making  trial  of  them 
in  the  field,  to  meet  at  a  famous  hare-cover 
near.  When  the  huntsman  came  with  his 
hounds  in  the  morning,  he  discovered  a 
great  number  of  sportsmen,  who  were  riding 
in  the  cover,  and  whipping  the  furzes  as  for 
a  hare ;  he  therefore  halted,  and  informed 
Mr.  Bowes  that  he  was  unwilling  to  throw 
off  his  hounds  until  the  gentlemen  had  re- 
tired, and  ceased  the  slapping  of  whips,  to 
which  his  hounds  were  not  accustomed, 
and  he  would  engage  to  find  a  fox  in  a  few 
minutes  if  there  was  one  there.  The  gen- 
tlemen sportsmen  having  obeyed  the  orders 
given  by  Mr.  Bowes,  the  huntsman,  taking 
the  wind  of  the  cover,  threw  off  his  hounds, 
which  immediately  began  to  feather,  and 
soon  got  upon  a  drag  into  the  cover,  and 
up  to  the  fox's  kennel,  which  went  off  close 
before  them,  and,  after  a  severe  burst  over 
a  fine  country,  was  killed,  to  the  great  sa- 
tisfaction of  the  whole  party.  They  then 
returned  to  the  same  cover,  not  one  half  of 
it  having  been  drawn,  and  very  soon  found 
a  second  fox,  exactly  in  the  same  manner 
as  before,  which  broke  cover  immediately 
over  the  same  fine  country  :  but  the  chase 
was  much  longer ;  and  in  the  course  of  it 
the  fox  made  its  way  to  a  nobleman's  park! 
It  had  been  customary  to  stop  hounds  be- 
fore they  could  enter  it,  but  the  best-mount- 


ed sportsmen  attempted  to  stay  the  Dorset- 
shire hounds  in  vain.  The  dogs  topped  the 
highest  fences,  dashed  through  herds  of 
deer  and  a  number  of  hares,  without  taking 
the  least  notice  of  tr  •'m  ;  and  ran  in  to  their 
fox,  and  killed  him  >ome  miles  beyond  the 
park.  It  was  the  unanimous  opinion  of 
the  whole  hunt,  that  it  was  the  finest  run 
ever  known  in  that  country.  A  collection 
of  field-money  was  made  for  the  huntsman 
much  beyond  his  expectations;  and  he  re- 
turned to  Stepleton  in  belter  spirits  than  he 
left  it. 

Before  this  pack  was  raised  in  Dorset- 
shire, the  hounds  that  hunted  Cranbourn 
Chase,  hunted  all  the  animals  promis- 
cuously, except  the  deer,  from  which  they 
were  necessarily  kept  steady,  otherwise  they 
would  not  have  been  suffered  to  hunt  in  the 
chase  at  all. 


Origin  of  Cranbourn  Chase. 
This  royal  chase,  always  called  "  The 
King's  Chase,"  in  the  lapse  of  ages  came 
into  possession  of  an  earl  of  Salisbury.  It 
is  ceitain  that  after  one  of  its  eight  distinct 
walks,  called  Fernditch  Walk,  was  sold  to 
the  ?arl  of  Pembroke,  the  entire  remainder 
of  the  chase  was  alienated  to  lord  Ashley, 
afterwards  earl  of  Shaftesbury.  Alderholt 
Walk  was  the  largest  and  most  extensive 
in  the  whole  Chase ;  it  lies  in  the  three 
counties  of  Hants,  Wilts,  and  Dorset ;  but 
the  lodge  and  its  appurtenances  is  in  the 
parish  of  Cranbourn,  and  all  the  Chase 
courts  are  held  at  the  manor-house  there, 
where  was  also  a  prison  for  offenders 
against  the  Chase  laws.  Lord  Shaftesbury 
deputed  rangers  in  the  different  walks  in 
the  year  1670,  and  afterwards  dismember- 
ing it,  (though  according  to  old  records,  it 
appears  to  have  been  dismembered  long 
before,)  by  destroying  Alderholt  Walk  ;  he 
sold  the  remainder  to  Mr.  Freke,  of  Shro- 
ton,  in  Dorsetshire,  from  whom  it  lineally 
descended  to  the  present  possessor,  lord 
Rivers. 


Accounts  of  Cranbourn  Chase  can  be 
traced  to  the  aera  when  king  John,  or  some 
other  royal  personage,  had  a  hunting-seat 
at  Tollard  Royal,  n  the  county  of  Wilts. 
Hence  the  name  oi  royal"  to  that  parish 
was  certainly  derived.  There  are  vestiges 
in  and  about  the  old  palace,  which  clearly 
evince  that  it  was  once  a  royal  habitation 
and  it  still  bears  the  name  of  "  King  John  i 
House."  There  are  large  cypress  tree* 
growing  before  the  house,  the  relics  o 
grand  terraces  may  be  easily  traced,  and 


37 


THE  TABLE  BOOK 


the  remains  of  a  park  to  v>  hich  some  of 
them  lead.  A  gate  at  the  end  of  the  park 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Royal  Chase,  now 
called  "  Alarm  Gate,"  was  the  place  pro- 
bably where  the  horn  was  blown  to  call  the 
keepers  to  their  duty  in  attending  their 
lord  in  his  sports.  There  is  also  a  veneia- 
ble  old  wych-elm  tree,  on  the  Chase  side 
of  the  "  Alarm  Gate,"  under  which  lord 
Arundel,  the  possessor  of  Tollard  Royal, 
holds  a  court  annually,  on  the  first  Monday 
in  the  month  of  September.  A  view  of  the 
mansion  in  its  piesent  state,  is  given  in  the 
"  Gentleman's  Magazine"  for  September 
1811. 


Mr.  Stiutt,  the  indefatigable  historian 
of  the  "  Sports  and  Pastimes  of  the  People 
of  England,"  says  of  Barley-break :  "  The 
excellency  of  this  sport  seems  to  have  con- 
sisted in  running  well,  but  I  know  not 
its  properties."  Beyond  this  Mr.  Strutt 
merely  cites  Dr.  Johnson's  quotation  of 
two  lines  from  sir  Philip  Sidney,  as  an  au- 
thority for  the  word.  Johnson,  limited  to  a 
mere  dictionary  explanation,  calls  it  "  a 
kind  of  rural  play;  a  trial  of  swiftness." 

Sidney,  in  his  description  of  the  rural 
courtship  of  Urania  by  Strephon,  conveys  a 
sufficient  idea  of  "  Barley-break."  The 
shepherd  seeks  the  society  of  his  mistress 
wherever  he  thinks  it  likely  to  find  her. 

Nay  ev'n  unto  her  home  he  oft  would  go, 
Where  bold  and  hnrtless  many  play  he  tries  ; 

Her  parents  liking  well  it  should  be  so. 
For  simple  goodness  shined  in  his  eyes ; 

Then  did  he  make  her  laugh  in  spite  of  woe 
So  as  good  thoughts  of  him  in  all  arise  ; 

While  into  none  doubt  of  his  love  did  sink. 

For  not  himself  to  be  in  love  did  think. 

This  "  sad  shepherd  "  held  himself  to- 
wards Urania  according  to  the  usual  cus- 
tom and  manner  of  lovers  in  such  cases. 

For  glad  desire,  his  late  embosom'd  guest, 
Yet  but  a  babe,  with  milk  of  sight  he  nurst : 

Desire  the  more  he  suckt,  more  sought  the  brea.-t 
Like  dropsy-folk,  still  drink  to  be  a thirst ; 

Till  one  fair  ev'n  an  hour  ere  sun  did  rest, 
Who  then  in  Lion's  cave  did  enter  first, 

By  neighbors  pray'd,  she  went  abroad  thereby 

At  Barley-break  her  sweet  swift  foot  to  try. 

Never  the  earth  on  his  round  shoulders  bare 
A  niHid  train'd  up  from  higher  low  degree. 

That  in  her  doings  better  could  compare 

M:rth  with  respect,  few  word-:  with  courtesic, 

A  careless  comeliness  with  comely  care, 
Wolf-guard  with  mildness,  sport  with  majesty 


Which  made  her  yield  to  deck  this  shepherd's  band  : 
And  still,  believe  me.  Strephon  was  at  hand. 

Then  couples  three  be  straight  allotted  there, 
They  of  both  ends  the  middle  two  do  fly ; 

The  two  that  in  mid-place,  Hell.*  called  were, 
Must  strive  with  waiting  foot,  ar.d  watching  eye. 

To  catch  of  them,  and  them  to  Hell  to  bear. 
That  they,  as  well  as  they,  Hell  may  supply 

Like  some  which  seek  to  salve  their  blotted  narn 

With  other's  blot,  till  all  do  taste  of  shame. 

There  you  may  see,  soon  as  the  middle  two 
Do  coupled  towards  either  couple  make. 

They  false  and  fearful  do  their  hands  undo. 

Brother  his  brother,  friend  doth  his  friend  forsake. 

Heeding  himself,  cares  not  how  fellow  do. 
But  of  a  stranger  mutual  help  doth  take  : 

As  perjured  cowartls  in  adversity, 

With  sight  of  fear,  from  friends  to  fremb'df  doth  fly, 

The  game  being  played  out  with  divers 
adventurers 

All  to  second  Barley-break  again  are  bent. 

During  the  second  game,  Strephon  wai 
chased  by  Urania. 

Strephon  so  chased  did  seem  in  milk  to  swim  ; 

He  ran,  but  ran  with  eye  o'er  shoulder  cast, 
More  marking  her,  than  how  himself  did  go. 

Like  Numid's  lions  by  the  hunters  chased, 
Though  they  do  fly,  yet  backwardly  do  glow 

With  proud  aspect,  disdaining  greater  baste  : 
What  rage  in  them,  that  love  in  him  did  show  ; 
But  God  gives  them  instinct  the  man  to  shun. 
And  he  by  law  of  Barley-break  must  run. 

Urania  caught  Strephon,  and  he  was 
sent  by  the  rules  of  the  sport  to  the  con- 
demned place,  with  a  shepherdess,  named 
Nous,  who  affirmed 


-itwas  no  right,  for  his  default, 


Who  would  be  caught,  that  &he  should  go- 
But  so  she  must.     And  now  the  third  assault 
Of  Barley-break. 

Strephon,  in  this  third  game,  pursues 
Urania ;  Klaius,  his  rival  suitor,  suddenly 
interposed. 

For  with  pretence  from  Strephon  herto  guard. 
He  met  her  full,  but  full  of  warefulness. 

With  in-bovv'd  bosom  well  for  her  prepared, 
When  Strephon  cursing  his  own  backwardness 

Came  to  her  back,  and  so,  with  double  ward, 
Imprison'd  her,  who  both  them  did  possess 

As  heart- bound  slaves. 


*  It  may  be  doubted  whether  in  the  rude  simplicity 
of  ancient  times,  this  word  in  the  game  of  Barley-breart 
was  applied  in  the  same  manner  that  it  would  be  in 
ours. 

t  Fremeb,  (  obsolete,  Ystrange,  foreign,  dsh.  Corrupt- 
ed (romfrcmd,  which,  in  Saxon  iind  (Jothii:,  signified  . 
stranger,  or  an  enemy.  l\~arrt. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


Her  race  did  not  her  beauty's  beams  augm«nt, 

For  they  were  ever  in  the  best  degree, 
Bnt  yet  a  setting  forth  it  some  way  lent. 

As  rabies  lastre  wheu  they  rubbed  be  • 
The  dainty  dew  on  face  and  body  went. 

As  on  swest  flowers,  when  morning's.drops  we  see  : 
Her  breath   then   short,  seem'd   loth  from   home     to 

pass. 
Which  more  it  moved,  the  more  it  sweeter  was. 

Happy,  O  happy !  if  they  so  might  bide 

To  see  their  eyes,  with  how  true  humbleness, 
They  looked  down  to  triumph  over  pride ; 

With  how  sweet  blame  she  chid  their  sauciness — 

Till  she  brake  from  their  arms- 

And  farewelling  the  flock,  did  homeward  wend, 
And  so,  that  even,  the  Barley-break  did  end. 

This  game  is  mentioned  by  Burton,  in 
?iis  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,"  as  one  of 
our  rural  sports,  and  by  several  of  the 
poets,  with  more  or  less  of  description, 
though  by  none  so  fully  as  Sidney,  in  the 
first  eclogue  of  the  "  Arcadia,"  from  whence 
the  preceding  passages  are  taken. 

The  late  Mr.  Gifford,  in  a  note  on  Mas- 
singer,  chiefly  from  the  "  Arcadia,"  de- 
scribes Barley-break  thus  :  "  It  was  played 
by  six  people,  (three  of  each  sex,)  who  weie 
coupled  by  lot.  A  piece  of  ground  was 
then  chosen,  and  divided  into  three  com- 
partments, of  which  the  middle  one  was 
called  hell.  It  was  the  object  of  the  couple 
condemned  to  this  division  to  catch  the 
others,  who  advanced  from  the  two  ex- 
tremities ;  in  which  case  a  change  of  situa- 
tion took  place,  and  hell  was  filled  by  the 
couple  who  were  excluded  by  preoccupa- 
tion from  the  other  places :  in  this  catching, 
however,  there  was  some  difficulty,  as,  by 
the  regulations  of  the  game,  the  middle 
couple  were  not  to  separate  before  they 
had  succeeded,  while  the  others  might 
break  hands  whenever  they  found  them- 
selves hard  pressed.  When  all  had  been 
taken  in  turn,  the  last  couple  were  said  to 
be  in  hell,  and  the  game  ended." 

Within  memory,  a  game  called  Barley- 
break  has  been  played  among  stacks  of 
corn,  in  Yorkshire,  with  some  variation  from 
the  Scottish  game  mentioned  presently.  In 
Yorkshire,  also,  there  was  another  form 
of  it,  more  resembling  that  in  the  "Arca- 
dia,'' which  was  played  in  open  ground. 
The  childish  game  of  "  Tag  "  seems  derived 
<rom  it.  There  was  a  "  tig,"  or  "  tag," 
whose  touch  made  a  prisoner,  in  the  York- 
shire game. 


though  differently  played.  It  is  termed 
"  Barla-breikis,"  or  "  Barley-bracks."  Dr. 
Jamieson  says  it  is  generally  played  by 
young  people,  in  a  corn-yard  about  the 
stacks ;  and  hence  called  Barla-brachs, 
"  One  stack  is  fixed  as  the  dule  or  goal , 
and  one  person  is  appointed  to  catch  the 
rest  of  the  company,  who  run  out  from  the 
dule.  He  does  not  leave  it  till  they  are  all 
out  of  his  sight.  Then  he  sets  out  to  catch 
them.  Any  one  who  is  taken,  cannot  run 
out  again  with  his  former  associates,  being 
accounted  a  prisoner,  but  is  obliged  to 
assist  his  captor  in  pursuing  the  rest. 
When  all  are  taken,  the  game  is  finished ; 
and  he  who  is  first  taken,  is  bound  to  act 
as  catcher  in  the  next  game.  This  inno- 
cent sport  seems  to  be  almost  entirely  for- 
gotten in  the  south  of  Scotland.  It  is  also 
falling  into  desuetude  in  the  north."* 


PLATE  TAX. 

An  order  was  made  in  the  house  of  lords 
in  May,  1776,  "  that  the  commissioners  of 
his  majesty's  excise  do  write  circular  letters 
to  all  such  persons  whom  they  have  reason 
to  suspect  to  have  plate,  as  also  to  those  who 
have  not  paid  regularly  the  duty  on  the 
same."  In  consequence  of  this  order,  the 
accountant-general  for  household  plate  sent 
to  the  celebrated  John  Wesley  a  copy  of 
the  order.  John's  answer  was  laconic  :— 
"  Sir, 

"  I  have  two  silver  tea-spoons  in  Lon- 
don, and  two  at  Bristol.  This  is  all  the 
plate  which  I  have  at  present ;  and  I  shall 
not  buy  any  more  while  so  many  round  me 
want  bread.  I  arn,  Sir, 

"  Your  most  humble  servant, 

"  JOHN  WESLEY/ 


BARLA-BREIKIS. 

In  Scotland   there  is  a  game  nearly  the 
same  in  Henomination  as  "  Barley-break," 


THE  DIAL. 

This  shadow  on  the  dial's  (ace, 

That  steals,  from  day  to  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace, 

Moments,  and  montis,  and  years  away 
This  shadow,  which  in  every  clime, 

Since  light  and  motion  first  began, 
Hath  held  its  course  sublime; 

What  is  it  ?— Mortal  man  ! 
It  is  the  scythe  of  Time. 

— A  shadow  only  to  the  eye. 

It  levels  all  beneath  the  sky. 


*  Mr.  Archdeacon  Nareg's  Glossary. 


THE  TABLE  LOOK. 


42 


jflorfe  jfimeral  of  a  i&atf)  Chairman* 


A  chairman  lite  "s  a  chairman  dead, 
And  to  his  grave,  by  chairman  sped, 
They  wake  him,  as  they  march  him  through 
The  streets  of  Bath,  to  public  view. 


To  the  Editor. 

Bath. 

Sir, — I  beg  leave  to  transmit  for  your  use 
the  following  attempt  at  description  of  an 
old  and  singular  custom,  performed  by  the 
chairman  of  this  my  native  city,  which 
perhaps  you  are  not  altogether  a  stranger 
to,  and  which  is  still  kept  up  among  them  as 
often  as  an  opportunity  permits  for  its  per- 
formance. Its  origin  I  have  not  been  able 
to  trace,  but  its  authenticity  you  may  rely 
on,  as  it  is  too  often  seen  to  be  forgotten 
by  your  Bath  readers.  I  have  also  ac- 
companied it  with  the  above  imperfect 
sketch,  as  a  further  illustration  of  their 
manner  of  burying  the  "  dead,"  alias,  ex- 


posing a  drunkard  of  their  fraternity.  The 
following  is  the  manner  in  which  the  "  oK 
sequies  "  to  the  intoxicated  are  perform  r, 
If  a  chairman,  known  to  have  beei 
"  dead  "  drunk  over  night,  does  not  ap- 
pear on  his  station  before  ten  o'clock  or 
the  succeeding  morning,  the  "  undertaker.' 
Anglice,  his  partner,  proceeds,  with  such  r 
number  of  attendants  as  will  suffice  for  the 
ceremony,  to  the  house  of  the  late  unfor- 
tunate. If  he  is  found  in  bed,  as  is  usually 
the  case,  from  the  effects  of  his  sacrifice  tr 
the  "jolly  God,''  they  pull  him  out  of  hi? 
nest,  hardly  permitting  him  to  dress,  anp 
place  him  on  the  "  bier," — a  chairmen'- 
horse, — and,  throwing  a  coat  over  hui, 


THE  TABLE  BOOK 


which  tney  designate  a  "  pall,"  they  per- 
ambulate  the  circuit  of  his  station  in  the 
tallowing  order: — 

1.  The  sexton — a  man  tolling  a  small 
nnnd-beli. 

2.  Two  mutes— each  with  a  black  stock- 
ing on  a  stick. 

3.  The  torch  bearer— -a  man  carrying  a 
lighted  lantern. 

4.  The  "  corpse  "  borne  on  the  "  hearse," 
carried  by  two  chairmen,  covered  with  the 
aforesaid  pall. 

The  procession  is  closed  by  the  "  mourn- 
ers" following  after,  two  and  two;  as  many 
pining  as  choose,  from  the  station  to  which 
the  drunkard  belongs. 

After  exposing  him  in  this  manner  to 
the  gaze  of  the  admiring  crowd  that  throng 
about,  they  proceed  to  the  public-house  he 
has  been  in  the  habit  of  using,  where  his 
"  wake "  is  celebrated  in  joviality  and 
mirth,  with  a  gallon  of  ale  at  his  expense. 
It  often  happens  that  each  will  contribute 
a  trifle  towards  a  further  prolongation  of 
the  carousal,  to  entrap  others  into  the  same 
deadly  snare ;  and  the  day  is  spent  in  bait- 
ing for  the  chances  or  t*^  next  morning,  as 
none  are  exempt  who  are  not  at  their  post 
before  the  prescribed  hour. 

I  am,  &c. 

W.  G. 

OTtlltam  <§tffor&,  esq. 

On  Sunday  morning,  the  3tst  of  Decem- 
ber, 1826,  at  twenty  minutes  before  one 
o'clock,  died,  "  at  his  house  in  James- 
street,  Buckingham-gate,  in  the  seventy- 
first  year  of  his  age,  William  Gifford,  Esq., 
author  of  the  '  Baviad  and  MaBviad,'  trans- 
lator of  '  Juvenal  and  Persius,'  and  editor 
of  the  '  Quarterly  Review,'  from  its  com- 
mencement down  to  the  beginning  of  the 
year  just  past.  To  the  translation  of  '  Ju- 
venal* >.s  prefixed  a  memoir  of  himself, 
which  is  perhaps  as  modest  and  pleasant  a 
piece  of  autobiography  as  ever  was  writ- 
ten."—  The  Times,  January  1,  1827. 

INTERESTING 

$rlemou-  of  ^lr.  (gfffbrfc. 

BY  HIMSELF — VERBATIM. 

I  am  about  to  enter  on  a  very  uninteresting 
subject :  but  all  my  friends  tell  me  that  it  is 
necessary  to  account  for  the  long  delay  of  the 
following  work  ;  and  I  can  only  do  it  by  ad- 
\ert:ii2;  to  th<;  circumstances  of  my  life.  Will 
lliis  be  accepted  as  an  apology  r* 

I  know  but  liltl*  of  my  familw   ar>d  that  little 


is  not  very  precise :  My  great-grandfather  (the 
most  remote  of  it,  that  I  ever  recollect  to  have 
heard  mentioned)  possessed  considerable  pro- 
perty at  Halsbury,  a  parish  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Ashburton  ;  but  whether  acquired  or  in- 
herited, I  never  thought  of  asking,  and  do  not 
know. 

He  was  probably  a  native  of  Devonshire,  tor 
there  he  spent  the  last  years  of  his  life ;  spent 
them,  too,  in  some  sort  of  consideration,  for  Mr. 
T.  (a  very  respectable  surgeon  of  Ashburton) 
loved  to  repeat  to  me,  when  I  first  grew  into 
notice,  that  he  had  frequently  hunted  with  his 
hounds.* 

My  grandfather  was  on  ill  terms  with  him :  I 
believe,  not  without  sufficient  reason,  for  he  was 
extravagant  and  dissipated.  My  father  never 
mentioned  his  name,  but  my  mother  would 
sometimes  tell  me  that  he  had  ruined  the  family. 
That  he  spent  much,  1  know  ;  but  1  am  inclined 
to  think,  that  his  undutiful  conduct  occasioned 
n>y  great-grandfather  to  bequeath  a  considerable 
part  of  his  property  from  him. 

My  father,  I  fear,  revenged  in  some  measure 
the  cause  of  my  great-grandfather.  He  was,  as 
1  have  heard  my  mother  say,  "  a  very  wild 
young  man,  who  could  be  kept  to  nothing."  He 
was  sent  to  the  grammar-school  at  Exeter ;  from 
which  he  made  his  escape,  and  entered  on 
board  a  man  of  war.  He  was  reclaimed  from 
this  situation  by  my  grandfather,  and  left  his 
school  a  second  time,  to  wander  in  some  vaga- 
bond society .f  He  was  now  probably  given  up ; 
(or  he  was,  on  his  return  from  this  notable  ad- 
venture, reduced  to  article  himself  to  a  plumber 
and  glazier,  with  whom  he  '  #kily  staid  long 
enough  to  learn  the  business.  I  suppose  his 
father  was  now  dead,  for  he  became  possessed 
of  two  small  estates,  married  my  mother,];  (the 
daughter  of  a  carpenter  at  Ashburton,)  and 
thought  himself  rich  enough  to  set  up  for  him- 
self; which  he  did,  with  some  credit,  at  South 
Molton.  Why  he  chose  to  fix  there,  1  never  in- 
quired ;  but  1  learned  from  my  mother,  that  after 
a  residence  of  four  or  five  years,  he  thoughtlessly 
engaged  in  a  dangerous  frolic,  which  drove 
him  once  more  to  sea:  this  was  an  attempt  to 
excite  a  riot  in  a  Methodist  chapel ;  for  which 
his  companions  were  prosecuted,  and  he  fled. 

My  father  was  a  good  seaman,  and  was  soon 
made  second  in  command  in  the  Lyon,  a  large 
armed  transport  in  the  service  of  government 
while  my  mother    (then  with  child  of  me)  re- 
turned to  her  native  place,  Ashburton,  where 
was  born,  in  Apiil,  1756. 

•  The  matter  is  of  no  consequence — no,  not  even 
myself.  From  my  family  I  derived  nothing  but  a  name 
which  is  more,  perhaps,  than  I  shall  leave  :  but  (t., 
check  the  sneers  of  rude  vulgarity)  that  family  wa 
amonif  the  most  ancient  and  respectable  of  this  par;  <\ 
the  country,  and,  not  more  than  three  generations  fron. 
the  present,  \vas  counted  among  the  wealthiest. — *««•. 

•trap  t 

t  HP- hid  gone  with  Bamfylde  Moor  Carew,  then  a« 
old  man. 

J  Her  mai.len  name  wa*  Klizabeth  Cain.  My  t'athsf 
rjiristnii  came  was  Kd\vard. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


46 


The  resources  of  my  mother  were  very  scanty. 
They  arose  from  the  rent  of  three  or  four  small 
fields,  which  yet  remained  unsold.  With  these, 
nowever,  she  did  what  she  could  for  me ;  and  as 
soon  as  I  was  old  enough  to  be  trusted  out  of  her 
sight,  sent  rne  to  a  schoolmistress  of  the  name  of 
Parret,  from  whom  I  learned  in  due  time  to  read. 
I  cannot  boast  much  of  my  acquisitions  at  this 
school;  they  consisted  merely  of  the  contents  of 
the  "Child's  Spelling  Book:"  but  from  my 
mother,  who  had  stored  up  the  literature  of  a 
country  town,  which,  about  half  a  century  ago, 
amounted  to  little  more  than  what  was  dissemi- 
nated by  itinerant  ballad-singers,  or  rather, 
readers,  I  had  acquired  much  curious  knowledge 
of  Catskin,  and  the  Golden  Bull,  and  the  Bloody 
Gardener,  and  many  other  histories  equally  in- 
structive and  amusing. 

My  father  returned  from  sea  in  1764.  He 
had  been  at  the  siege  of  the  Havannah ;  and 
though  he  received  more  than  a  hundred  pounds 
for  prize  money,  and  his  wages  were  consider- 
able :  yet,  as  he  had  not  acquired  any  strict 
habits  of  economy,  he  brought  home  but  a  tri- 
fling sum.  The  little  property  yet  left  was  there- 
fore turned  into  money  ;  a  trifle  more  was  got 
by  agreeing  to  renounce  all  future  pretensions  to 
an  estate  at  Totness  ;*  and  with  this  my  father 
set  up  a  second  time  as  a  glazier  and  house 
painter.  I  was  now  about  eight  years  old,  and 
was  put  to  the  freeschool,  (kept  by  Hugh  Smer- 
don,)  to  learn  to  read,  and  write  and  cipher. 
Here  I  continued  about  three  years,  making  a 
most  wretched  progress,  when  my  father  fell  sick 
and  died.  He  had  not  acquired  wisdom  from 
his  misfortunes,  but  continued  wasting  his  time 
in  unprofitable  pursuits,  to  the  great  detriment 
of  his  business.  He  loved  drink  for  the  sake  of 
society,  and  to  this  he  fell  a  martyr ;  dying  of 
a  decayed  and  ruined  constitution  before  he  was 
forty.  The  town's-people  thought  bim  a  shrewd 
and  sensible  man,  and  regretted  his  death.  As 
lor  me,  I  never  greatly  loved  him  ;  I  had  not 
grown  up  with  him  ;  and  he  was  too  prone  to 
repulse  my  little  advances  to  familiarity,  with 
coldness,  or  anger.  He  had  certainly  some 
reason  to  be  displeased  with  me,  for  I  learned 
little  at  school,  and  nothing  at  home,  although  he 
would  now  and  then  attempt  to  give  me  some 
insight  into  his  business.  As  impressions  of  any 
kind  are  not  very  strong  at  the  age  of  eleven  or 
twelve,  I  did  not  long  feel  his  loss  ;  nor  was  it  a 
subject  of  much  sorrow  to  me,  that  my  mother 
was  doubtful  of  her  ability  to  continue  me  at 
school,  though  I  had  by  this  time  acquired  a 
love  for  reading. 

I  never  knew  in  what  circumstances  my  mother 
was  left :  most  probably  they  were  inadequate  to 
her  support,  without  some  kind  of  exertion,  espe- 
cially as  she  was  now  burthened  with  a  second 
child  about  six  or  eight  months  old.  Unfortu- 


*  This  consisted  of  several  houses,  which  had  been 
thoughtlessly  suffered  to  fall  into  decay,  and  of  which 
the  rents  had  been  so  long  unclaimed. "that  they  could 
DC'.  »w  H«  ™*.»Tert  '  •  -nless  by  an  expensive  litigation. 


nately  she  determined  tc  prosecute  my  father's 
business ;  for  which  purpose  she  engaged  a 
couple  of  journeymen,  who,  finding  her  ignorant 
of  every  part  of  it,  wasted  her  property,  and  em- 
bezzled her  money.  What  the  consequence  of 
this  double  fraud  would  have  been,  there  was  nc 
opportunity  of  knowing,  as,  in  somewhat  less 
than  a  twelvemonth,  my  poor  mother  followed 
my  father  to  the  grave.  She  was  an  excellent 
woman,  bore  my  father's  infirmities  with  patience 
and  good  humour,  loved  her  children  dearly,  and 
died  at  last,  exhausted  with  anxiety  and  grief 
more  on  their  account  than  her  own. 

I  was  not  quite  thirteen  when  this  happened  , 
my  little  brother  was  hardly  two  ;  and  we  had 
not  a  relation  nor  a  friend  in  the  world.  Every 
thing  that  was  left,  was  seized  by  a  person  of  the 
name  of  Carlile,  for  money  advanced  to  my 
mother.  It  may  be  supposed  that  1  could  not 
dispute  the  justice  of  his  claims  ;  and  as  no  one 
else  interfered,  he  was  suffered  to  do  as  he  liked. 
My  little  brother  was  sent  to  the  alms-house, 
whither  his  nurse  followed  him  out  of  pure  affec- 
tion :  and  I  was  taken  to  the  house  of  the  person 
I  have  just  mentioned,  who  was  also  my  god- 
father. Respect  for  the  opinion  of  the  town 
(which,  whether  correct  or  not,  was,  that  he  had 
amply  repaid  himself  by  the  sale  of  my  mother's 
effects)  induced  him  to  send  me  again  to  school, 
where  I  was  more  diligent  than  before,  and  more 
successful.  I  grew  fond  of  arithmetic,  and  my 
master  began  to  distinguish  me ;  but  these 
golden  days  were  over  in  less  than  three  months 
Carlile  sickened  at  the  expense ;  and,  as  the 
people  were  now  indifferent  to  my  fate,  he 
looked  round  for  an  opportunity  of  ridding  him- 
self of  a  useless  charge.  He  had  previously 
attempted  to  engage  me  in  the  drudgery  of 
husbandry.  I  drove  the  plough  for  one  day  to 
gratify  him  ;  but  1  left  it  with  a  firm  resolution 
to  do  so  no  more,  and  in  despite  of  his  threats 
and  promises,  adhered  to  my  determination.  In 
this,  I  was  guided  no  less  by  necessity  than  will. 
During  my  father's  life,  in  attempting  to  clamber 
up  a  table,  I  had  fallen  backward,  and  drawn  it 
after  me :  its  edge  fell  upon  my  breast,  and  I 
never  recovered  the  effects  of  .the  blow ;  of 
whicb  I  was  made  extremely  sensible  on  any 
extraordinary  exertion.  Ploughing,  therefore, 
was  out  of  the  question,  and,  as  I  have  already 
said,  T  utterly  refused  to  follow  it. 

As  I  could  write  and  cipher,  (as  the  phrase 
is,)  Carlile  next  thought  of  sending  me  to  New- 
foundland, to  assist  in  a  storehouse.  For  this 
purpose  he  negotiated  with  a  Mr.  Holdsworthy 
of  Dartmouth,  who  agreed  to  fit  me  out.  I  left 
Ashburton  with  little  expectation  of  seeing  it 
again,  and  indeed  with  little  care,  and  rode  with 
my  godfather  to  the  dwelling  of  Mr.  Holds- 
worthy.  On  seeing  me,  this  great  man  observed 
with  a  look  of  pity  and  contempt,  that  I  was 
"  too  small,"  and  sent  me  away  sufficiently 
mortified.  I  expected  to  be  very  ill  received  by 
my  godfather,  but  he  said  nothing.  H«  d'r) 
not  however  choose  to  take  nie  back  himself, 
but  sent  rne  in  the  passage-boat  to  Totness,  fror1 


4? 


TIIF.  TABLE  BOOK. 


whence  I  was  to  walk  home.  On  the  passage, 
the  boat  was  driven  by  a  midnight  storm  on  the 
rocks,  and  I  escaped  almost  by  miracle. 

My  godfather  had  now  humbler  view?  for  me, 
and  1  had  little  heart  to  resist  any  thing.  He 
proposed  to  send  me  on  board  one  of  the  Tor- 
bay  fishing-boats  ;  I  ventured,  however,  to  re- 
monstrate against  this,  and  the  matter  was  com 
promised  by  my  consenting  to  go  on  board  a 
coaster.  A  coaster  was  speedily  found  for  me 
at  Brixham,  aud  thither  I  went  when  little  more 
than  thirteen. 

My  master,  whose  name  was  Full,  though  a 
gross  and  ignorant,  was  not  an  ill-natured, 
man  ;  at  least,  not  to  me  :  and  my  mistress  used 
me  with  unvarying  kindness  j  moved  perhaps  by 
my  weakness  and  tender  years.  In  return,  I 
did  what  I  could  to  requite  her,  and  my  good 
will  was  not  overlooked. 

Our  vessel  was  not  very  large,  nor  our  crew 
very  numerous.  On  ordinary  occasions,  such  as 
short  trips  to  Dartmouth,  PI)  mouth,  &c.  it  con- 
sisted only  of  my  master,  an  apprentice  nearly 
out  of  his  time,  and  myself :  when  we  had  to  go 
further,  to  Portsmouth  for  example,  an  additional 
hand  was  hired  for  the  voyage. 

In  this  vessel  (the  Two  Brothers)  I  continued 
nearly  a  twelvemonth  ;  and  here  I  got  acquaint- 
ed with  nautical  terms,  and  contracted  a  love 
for  the  sea,  which  a  lapse  of  thirty  years  has 
but  little  diminished. 

It  will  be  easily  conceived  that  my  life  was  a 
life  of  hardship.  I  was  not  only  a  "  shipboy  on 
the  high  and  giddy  mast,"  but  also  in  the  cabin, 
where  every  menial  office  fell  to  my  lot :  yet  if 
I  was  restless  and  discontented,  1  can  safely 
»ay,  it  was  not  so  much  on  account  of  this,  as  of 
my  being  precluded  from  all  possibility  of  read- 
ing ;  as  my  master  did  not  possess,  nor  do  I 
recollect  seeing  during  the  whole  time  of  my 
abode  with  him,  a  single  book  of  any  descrip- 
tion, except  the  Coasting  Pilot. 

As  my  lot  seemed  to  be  cast,  however,  I  was 
not  negligent  in  seeking  such  information  as 
promised  to  be  useful ;  and  I  therefore  fre- 
quented, at  my  leisure  hours,  such  vessels  as 
dropt  into  Torbay.  On  attempting  to  get  on 
board  one  of  these,  which  I  did  at  midnight,  I 
missed  my  footing,  and  fell  into  the  sea.  The 
floating  away  of  the  boat  alarmed  the  man  on 
deck,  who  came  to  the  ship's  side  just  in  time 
to  see  me  sink.  He  immediately  threw  out 
several  ropes,  one  of  which  providentially  (for  I 
was  unconscious  of  it)  intangled  itself  about  me, 
and  I  was  drawn  up  to  the  surface,  till  a  boat 
could  be  got  round.  The  usual  methods  were 
taken  to  recover  me,  and  I  awoke  in  bed  the 
next  morning,  remembering1  nothing  but  the 
horror  I  felt,  when  I  first  found  myself  unable 
»o  cry  out  for  assistance. 

This  was  not  my  only  escape,  but  I  forbear  to 
speak  of  them.  An  escape  of  another  kind  was 
now  preparing  for  me,  which  deserves  all  my 
notice,  as  it  was  decisive  of  my  future  fate. 

On  Christmas  day  (1770)  I  was  surprised  by 
at  message  from  my  godfather,  saying  that  he  had 


sent  a  man  and  horse  to  bring  me  to  A  hburton  ; 
and  desiring  me  to  set  out  without  delay.  My 
master,  as  well  as  myself,  supposed  it  was  to 
spend  the  holydays  there ;  and  he  therefore 
made  no  objection  to  my  going.  We  were, 
however,  both  mistaken. 

Since  I  had  lived  at  Brixham,  I  had  broken 
off  all  connection  with  Ashburton.  I  had  no  re- 
lation there  but  my  poor  brother,*  who  was  yet 
too  young  for  any  kind  of  correspondence  ;  and 
the  conduct  of  my  godfather  towards  me,  did 
not  entitle  him  to  any  portion  of  my  gratitude,  or 
kind  remembrance.  I  lived  therefore  in  a  sort 
of  sullen  independence  on  all  I  had  formerly 
known,  and  thought  without  regret  of  being 
abandoned  by  every  one  to  my  fate.  But  I  had 
not  been  overlooked.  The  women  of  Brixham, 
who  travelled  to  Ashburton  twice  a  week  with 
fish,  and  who  had  known  my  parents,  did  not 
see  me  without  kind  concern,  tunning  about  the 
beach  in  a  ragged  jacket  and  trousers.  They 
mentioned  this  to  the  people  of  Ashburton,  and 
never  without  commiserating  my  change  of  con- 
dition. This  tale,  often  repeated,  awakened  at 
length  the  pity  of  their  auditors,  and,  as  the  next 
step,  their  resentment  against  the  man  who  had 
reduced  me  to  such  a  state  of  wretchedness.  In 
a  large  town,  this  would  have  had  little  effect  ; 
but  in  a  place  like  Ashburton,  where  every  re- 
port speedily  becomes  the  common  property  of 
all  the  inhabitants,  it  raised  a  murmur  which  my 
godfather  found  himself  either  unable  or  unwill- 
ing to  encounter :  he  therefore  determined  to 
recall  me ;  which  he  could  easily  do,  as  I  wanted 
some  months  of  fourteen,  and  was  not  yet 
bound. 

All  this,  I  learned  on  my  arrival ;  and  my 
heart,  which  had  been  cruelly  shut  up,  now- 
opened  to  kinder  sentiments,  and  fairer  views. 

After  the  holydays  I  returned  to  my  darling 
pursuit,  arithmetic  :  my  progress  was  now  so 
rapid,  that  in  a  few  months  I  was  at  the  head  of 
the  school,  and  qualified  to  assist  my  master 
(Mr.  E.  Furlong)  on  any  extraordinary  emer- 
gency. As  he  usually  gave  me  a  trifle  on  those 
occasions,  it  raised  a  thought  in  me,  that  by  en- 
gaging with  him  as  a  regular  assistant,  and 
undertaking  the  instruction  of  a  few  evening 
scholars,  I  might,  with  a  little  additional  aid,  be 
enabled  to  support  myself.  God  knows,  my 


•  Of  my  brother  here  introduced  for  the  last  time,  t 
must  yet  say  a  few  words.     He  was  literally. 

The  child  of  misery  baptized  in  tears  ; 
and  the  short  passage  of  his  life  did  n->t  belie  the 
melancholy  presage  of  his  infancy.  When  he  was  seren 
years  old,  the  parish  bound  him  out  to  a  husbandman 
of  the  name  of  Leman,  with  whom  he  endured  incredi- 
ble hardships,  which  I  had  it  not  in  my  power  to  alle- 
viate. At  nine  years  of  age  he  brokr'his  thigh,  and  I 
took  that  opportunity  to  teach  him  to  read  and  write. 
When  my  own  situation  was  improved,  I  persuaded  him 
to  try  the  sea  ;  he  did  so  ;  and  was  taken  on  board  tbr 
Egmont,  on  condition  that  his  master  should  receive 
his  wages.  The  time  was  now  fast  approaching  when 
1  could  serve  him,  but  he  was  doomed  to  know  no 
favourable  change  of  fortune :  he  fell  sick,  and  died  at 
Cork. 


•19 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


ideas  of  support  at  this  time  were  of  DO  very 
extravagant  nature.  I  had,  besides,  another  ob- 
ject in  view.  Mr.  Hugh  Smerdon  (my  first 
master)  was  now  grown  old  and  infirm ;  it 
seemed  unlikely  that  he  should  hold  out  above 
three  or  four  years ;  and  I  fondly  flattered  my- 
self that,  notwithstanding  my  youth,  I  might 
possibly  be  appointed  to  succeed  him.  1  was  in 
my  fifteenth  year,  when  I  built  these  castles  :  a 
storm,  however,  was  collecting,  which  unex- 
pectedly burst  upon  me,  and  swept  them  all 
away. 

On  mentioning  my  little  plan  to  Carlile,  he 
treated  it  with  the  utmost  contempt ;  and  told 
me,  in  his  turn,  that  as  I  had  learned  enough, 
and  more  than  enough,  at  school,  he  must  be 
considered  as  having  fairly  discharged  his  duty ; 
(so,  indeed,  he  had;)  he  added,  that  he  had 
been  negotiating  with  his  cousin,  a  shoemaker 
of  some  respectability,  who  had  liberally  agreed 
to  take  me  without  a  fee,  as  an  apprentice.  I 
was  so  shocked  at  this  intelligence,  that  I  did 
not  remonstrate ;  but  went  in  sullenness  and 
silence  to  my  new  master,  to  whom  I  was  soon 
after  bound,*  till  I  should  attain  the  age  of 
twenty-one. 

The  family  consisted  of  four  journeymen,  two 
sons  about  my  own  age,  and  an  apprentice  some- 
what older.  In  these  there  was  nothing  re- 
markable ;  but  my  master  himself  was  the 
strangest  creature  ! — He  was  a  Presbyterian, 
whose  reading  was  entirely  confined  to  the 
small  tracts  published  on  the  Exeter  Contro- 
versy. As  these  (at  least  his  portion  of  them) 
were  all  on  one  side;  he  entertained  no  doubt 
of  their  infallibility,  and  being  noisy  and  disputa- 
cious,  was  sure  to  silence  his  opponents  ;  and  be- 
came, in  consequence  of  it,  intolerably  arrogant 
and  conceited.  He  was  not,  however,  indebted 
solely  to  his  knowledge  of  the  subject  for  his  tri- 
umph :  he  was  possessed  of  Penning' s  Dictionary, 
and  he  made  a  most  sirgular  use  of  it.  His  custom 
was  !o  fix  on  any  word  in  common  use,  and  then 
to  get  by  heart  the  synonym,  or  periphrasis  by 
which  it  was  explained  in  the  book ;  this  he 
constantly  substituted  for  the  simple  term,  and 
as  his  opponents  were  commonly  ignorant  of  his 
meaning,  his  victory  was  complete. 

With  such  a  man  I  was  not  likely  to  add 
mnch  to  my  stock  of  knowledge,  small  as  it  was ; 
and,  indeed,  nothing  could  well  be  smaller.  At 
this  period,  I  had  read  nothing  but  a  black  letter 
romance,  called  Parismus  and  Parismenus,  and 
a  few  loose  magazines  which  my  mother  had 
brought  from  South  Molton.  With  the  Bible, 
indeed,  I  was  well  acquainted ;  it  was  the 
favourite  study  of  my  grandmother,  and  reading 
it  frequently  with  her,  had  impressed  it  strongly 
on  my  mind  ;  these  then,  with  the  Imitation  of 
Thomas  3.  Kempis,  which  I  used  to  read  to  my 
mother  on  her  death-bed,  constituted  the  whole 
of  my  literary  acquisitions. 

As  I  hated  my  new  profession  with  a  perfect 

•  My  indenture,  wliiuli  now  lies  before  me,  is  dated 
th«  1st  of  January,  1772. 


hatred,  I  made  no  progress  in  it ;  and  was  con- 
sequently little  regarded  in  the  family,  of  which 
I  sunk  by  degrees  into  the  common  drudge : 
this  did  not  much  disquiet  me,  for  my  spirits 
were  now  humbled.  I  did  not  however  quite 
resign  the  hope  of  one  day  succeeding  to  Mr. 
Hugh  Smerdon,  and  therefore  secretly  prose- 
cuted my  favourite  study,  at  every  interval  of 
leisure. 

These  intervals  were  not  very  frequent ;  and 
when  the  use  I  made  of  theoj  was  found  out, 
they  were  rendered  still  less  so.  I  could  not 
guess  the  motives  for  this  at  first ;  but  at  length 
I  discovered  that  my  master  destined  his  young- 
est son  for  the  situation  to  which  I  aspired. 

I  possessed  at  this  time  but  one  book  in  the 
world  :  it  was  a  treatise  on  algebra,  given  to  me 
by  a  young  woman,  who  had  found  it  in  a 
lodging-house.  I  considered  it  as  a  treasure; 
but  it  was  a  treasure  locked  up  ;  for  it  supposed 
the  reader  to  be  well  acquainted  with  simple 
equation,  and  I  knew  nothing  of  the  matter. 
My  master's  son  had  purchased  Fenning's  Intro- 
duction :  this  was  precisely  what  I  wanted  ;  but 
he  carefully  concealed  it  from  me,  and  I  was 
indebted  to  chance  alone  for  stumbling  upon  his 
hiding-place.  I  sat  up  for  the  greatest  part  of 
several  nights  successively,  and,  before  he  sus- 
pected that  his  treatise  was  discovered,  had 
completely  mastered  it.  I  could  now  enter 
upon  my  own  ;  and  that  carried  me  pretty  far 
into  the  science. 

This  was  not  done  without  difficulty.  I  had 
not  a  farthing  on  earth,  nor  a  friend  to  give  me 
one  :  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  therefore,  (in  de- 
spite of  the  flippant  remark  of  Lord  Orford,) 
were,  for  the  most  part,  as  completely  out  of  my 
reach,  as  a  crown  and  sceptre.  There  was  in- 
deed a  resource ;  but  the  utmost  caution  and 
secrecy  were  necessary  in  applying  to  it.  I 
beat  out  pieces  of  leather  as  smooth  as  possible 
and  wrought  my  problems  on  them  with  a 
blunted  awl :  for  the  rest,  my  memory  was 
tenacious,  and  I  could  multiply  and  divide  by  it, 
to  a  great  extent. 

Hitherto  I  had  not  so  much  as  dreamed  of 
poetry :  indeed  I  scarcely  knew  it  by  name ; 
and,  whatever  may  be  said  of  the  force  of  na- 
ture, I  certainly  never  "  lisp'd  in  numbers."  I 
recollect  the  occasion  of  my  first  attempt :  it  is, 
like  all  the  rest  of  my  non-adventures,  of  so  un- 
important a  nature,  that  I  should  blush  to  call 
the  attention  of  the  idlest  reader  to  it,  but  for 
the  reason  alleged  in  the  introductory  para- 
graph. A  person,  whose  name  escapes  me,  had 
undertaken  to  paint  a  sign  for  an  ale-house  :  it 
was  to  have  been  a  lion,  but  the  unfortunate 
artist  produced  a  dog.  On  this  awkward  affair, 
one  of  my  acquaintance  wrote  a  copy  of  what 
we  called  verse :  I  liked  it  ;  but  fancied  1 
could  compose  something  more  to  the  purpose : 
I  made  the  experiment,  and  by  the  unanimous 
suffrage  of  my  shopmates  was  allowed  to  have 
succeeded.  Notwithstanding  this  encourage- 
ment, I  thought  no  more  of  verse,  till  another 
occurrence,  as  trifling  as  the  former,  furnished 


51 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


52 


me  with  a  fresh  subject :  and  thus  I  went  on, 
till  I  had  got  together  about  a  dozen  of  them. 
Certainly,  nothing  on  earth  was  ever  so  deplor- 
able :  such  as  they  were,  however,  they  were 
talked  of  in  my  little  circle,  and  I  was  somf- 
tirtes  invited  to  repeat  them,  even  out  of  it.  I 
never  committed  a  line  to  paper  for  two  reasons; 
first,  because  I  had  no  paper ;  and  secondly — 
perhaps  I  might  be  excused  from  going  fur- 
ther ;  but  in  truth  I  was  afraid,  as  my  master 
had  already  threatened  me,  for  inadvertently 
hitching  the  name  of  one  of  his  customers  into  a 
rhyme. 

The  repetitions  of  which  I  speak  were  always 
attended  with  applause,  and  sometimes  with 
favours  more  substantial :  little  collections  were 
now  and  then  made,  and  I  have  received  six- 
pence in  an  evening;  To  one  who  had  long 
lived  in  the  absolute  want  of  money,  such  a  re- 
source seemed  a  Peruvian  mine :  I  furnished 
myself  by  degrees  with  paper,  £c.,  and  what 
was  of  more  importance,  with  books  of  geome- 
try, and  of  the  higher  branches  of  algebra, 
which  I  cautiously  concealed.  Poetry,  even  at 
this  time,  was  no  amusement  of  mine  :  it  was 
subservient  to  other  purposes  ;  and  I  only  had 
recourse  to  it,  when  I  wanted  money  for  my  ma- 
thematical pursuits. 

But  the  clouds  were  gathering  fast.  My 
master's  anger  was  raised  to  a  terrible  pitch,  by 
my  indifference  to  his  concern1;,  and  still  more 
by  the  reports  which  were  daily  brought  to  him 
of  my  presumptuous  attempts  at  versification. 
I  was  required  to  give  up  my  papers,  and  when 
1  refused,  my  garret  was  searched,  and  my 
little  hoard  of  books  discovered  and  removed, 
and  all  future  repetitions  prohibited  in  the 
strictest  manner. 

This  was  a  very  severe  stroke,  and  I  felt  it 
most  sensibly ;  it  was  followed  by  another  se- 
verer still  ;  a  stroke  which  crushed  the  hopes  I 
had  so  long  and  so  fondly  cherished,  and  re- 
signed me  at  once  to  despair.  Mr.  Hugh 
Smerdon,on  whose  succession  I  had  calculated, 
died,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  person  not  much 
older  than  myself,  and  certainly  not  so  well 
qualified  for  the  situation. 

I  look  back  on  that  part  of  my  life  which  im- 
mediately followed  this  event,  with  little  satis- 
faction ;  it  was  a  period  of  gloom,  and  savage 
unsociability  :  by  degrees  I  sunk  into  a  kind  of 
coporeal  torpor ;  or,  if  roused  into  activity  by 
the  spirit  of  youth,  wasted  the  exertion  in  sple- 
r.etic  and  vexatious  tricks,  which  alienated  the 
few  acquaintances  whom  compassion  had  yet 
left  me.  So  I  crept  on  in  silent  discontent, 
unfriended  and  unpitied  ;  indignant  at  the  pre- 
sent, careless  of  the  future,  an  object  at  once  of 
apprehension  and  dislike. 

From  this  state  of  abjectness  I  was  raised  by 
a  young  woman  of  my  own  class.  She  was  a 
neighbour  ;  and  whenever  I  took  my  solitary 
walk,  with  my  Wolfius  in  my  pocket,'  she  usu- 
ally came  to  the  door,  and  by  a  smile,  or  a  short 
question,  put  in  the  friendliest  manner,  endea- 
voured to  solicit  my  attention.  My  heart  had 


been  long  shut  to  kindness,  but  the  sentiment 
was  not  dead  in  me  :  it  revived  at  the  first  en- 
couraging word  ;  and  the  gratitude  I  felt  for  it. 
was  the  first  pleasing  sensation  which  I  had 
ventured  to  entertain  for  many  dreary  months. 

Together  with  gratitude,  hope,  and  other  pas- 
sions still  more  enlivening,  took  place  of  that 
uncomfortable  gloominess  which  so  lately  pos- 
sessed me  :  I  reiurned  to  my  companions,  and 
by  every  winning  art  in  my  power,  strove  *. 
make  them  forget  my  former  repulsive  ways. 
In  this  I  was  not  unsuccessful ;  I  recovered 
their  good  will,  and  by  degrees  grew  to  be 
somewhat  of  a  favourite. 

My  master  still  murmured,  for  the  business  of 
the  shop  went  on  no  better  than  before  :  I  com- 
forted myself,  however,  with  the  reflection  that 
my  apprenticeship  was  drawing  to  a  conclusion, 
when  I  determined  to  renounce  the  employment 
for  ever,  and  io  open  a  private  school. 

In  this  humble  and  obscure  state,  poor  be- 
yond the  common  lot,  yet  flattering  my  ambi- 
tion with  day-dreams,  which,  perhaps,  would 
never  have  been  realized,  I  was  found  in  the 
twentieth  year  of  my  age  by  Mr.  William 
Cookesley,  a  name  never  to  be  pronounced  by 
me  without  veneration.  The  lamentable  dog- 
gerel which  I  have  already  mentioned,  and 
which  had  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  among 
people  of  my  own  degree,  had  by  some  accident 
or  other  reached  his  ear,  and  given  him  a  cu- 
riosity to  inquire  after  the  author. 

It  was  my  good  fortune  to  interest  his  be- 
nevolence. My  little  history  was  not  untinctur- 
ed  with  melancholy,  and  I  laid  it  fairly  before 
him  :  his  first  care  was  to  console  ;  his  second, 
which  he  cherished  to  the  last  moment  of  his 
existence,  was  to  relieve  and  support  me. 

Mr.  Cookesley  was  not  rich :  his  eminence 
in  his  profession,  which  was  ihat  of  a  surgeon, 
procured  him,  indeed,  much  employment ;  but 
in  a  country  town,  men  of  science  are  not  the 
most  liberally  rewarded  :  he  had,  besides,  a  very 
numerous  family,  which  left  him  little  for  the 
purposes  of  general  benevolence  :  that  little, 
however,  was  cheerfully  bestowed,  and  his  ac- 
tivity and  zeal  were  always  at  hand  tc  supply 
the  deficiencies  of  his  fortune. 

On  examining  into  the  nature  of  my  literary 
attainments,  he  found  them  absolutely  nothing: 
he  heard,  however,  with  equal  surprise  and 
pleasure,  that  amidst  the  grossest  ignorance  of 
books,  I  had  made  a  very  considerable  prcgress 
in  the  mathematics.  He  engaged  me  to  enter 
into  the  details  of  this  affair  ,  and  when  he 
learned  that  I  had  made  it  in  circumstances  of 
peculiar  discouragement,  he  became  more 
warmly  interested  in  my  favour,  as  he  now  saw 
a  possibility  of  serving  me. 

The  plan  that  occurred  to  him  was  naturally 
that  which  had  so  often  suggested  itself  to  me. 
There  were  indeed  several  obstacles  to  be  over- 
come ;  1  had  eighteen  months  yet  to  serve  ;  mv 
handwriting  was  bad,  and  my  language  very  in- 
correct;  but  nothing1  could  slacken  trie  zeal  of 
this  excellent  man ;  he  procured  a  few  of  mj 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


poor  attempts  at  rhyme,  dispersed  them  amongst 
his  friends  and  acquaintance,  and  when  my 
name  was  become  somewhat  familiar  to  them, 
set  on  foot  a  subscription  for  my  relief.  I  still 
^reserve  the  original  paper ;  its  title  was  not 
ery  magnificent,  though  it  exceeded  the  most 
Anguine  wishes  of  my  heart :  it  ran  thus,  "  A 
Subscription  for  purchasing  the  remainder  of 
•he  time  of  William  Gifford,  and  for  enabling 
him  to  improve  himself  in  Writing  and  English 
Grammar."  Few  contributed  more  than  five 
shillings,  and  none  went  beyond  ten-and-six- 
oence :  enough,  however,  was  collected  to  free 
me  from  my  apprenticeship.*  and  to  maintai  n 
me  for  a  few  months,  during  which  I  assiduously 
attended  the  Rev.  Thomas  Smerdon. 

At  the  expiration  of  this  period,  it  was  found 
that  my  progress  (for  1  will  speak  the  truth  in 
modesty)  had  been  more  considerable  than  my 
patrons  expected  :  I  had  also  written  in  the  in- 
terim several  little  pieces  of  poetry,  less  rugged, 
I  suppose,  than  my  former  ones,  and  certainly 
with  fewer  anomalies  of  language.  My  precep- 
tor, too,  spoke  favourably  of  me  ;  and  my  bene- 
factor, who  was  now  become  my  father  and  my 
friend,  had  little  difficulty  in  persuading  my  pa- 
trons to  renew  their  donations,  and  to  continue 
me  at  school  for  another  year.  Such  liberality 
was  not  lost  upon  me  ;  I  grew  anxious  to  make 
the  best  return  in  my  power,  and  I  redoubled 
my  diligence.  Now,  that  I  asn  sunk  into  indo- 
lence, I  look  back  with  some  degree  of  scep- 
ticism to  the  exertions  of  that  period. 

In  two  years  and  two  months  from  the  day  of 
my  emancipation,  I  was  pronounced  by  Mr. 
Smerdon,  fit  for  the  University.  The  plan  of 
opening  a  writing  school  had  been  abandoned 
almost  from  the  first ;  and  Mr.  Cookesley  look- 
ed round  for  some  one  who  had  interest  enough 
to  procure  me  some  little  office  at  Oxford.  This 
person,  who  was  soon  found,  was  Thomas  Tay- 
lor, Esq.  of  Denbury,  a  gentleman  to  whom  I 
had  already  been  indebted  for  much  liberal  and 
friendly  support.  He  procured  me  the  place  of 
Bib.  Lect.  at  Exeter  College  ;  and  this,  with 
such  occasional  assistance  from  the  country  as 
Mr.  Cookesley  undertook  to  provide,  was  thought 
sufficient  to  enable  me  to  live,  at  least,  till  I  had 
taken  a  degree. 

During  my  attendance  on  Mr.  Smerdon  I  had 
written,  as  I  observed  before,  several  tuneful 
trifles,  some  as  exercises,  others  voluntaiily, 
(for  poetry  was  now  become  my  delight,)  and 
not  a  few  at  the  desire  of  my  friends.t  When 

*  The  turn  my  master  received  was  six  pounds. 

t  As  I  have  republished  one  of  onrold  poets,  it  may 
V  allowable  to  mention  that  my  predilection  for  the 
Jrama  began  at  an  early  period.  Before  I  left  school, 
I  had  written  two  tragedies,  the  Oracle  and  the  Italian. 

My  qualifications  for  this  branch  of  the  art  may  be 
easily  appreciated ;  and,  indeed,  I  cannot  think  of  them 
wi'hout  a  smile. — These  rhapsodies  were  placed  by 
my  indulgent  friend,  who  thought  well  of  them,  in  the 
hands  of  two  respectable  gentlemen,  who  undertook  to 

coiiTey  them  to  the  manager  of :  I  am  ignorant 

of  their  fate.  The  death  of  Mr.  Cookesley  broke  every 
l»t.k  >f  nay  connection  with  the  majority  of  my  subscn- 


I  became  capable,  however,  of  reading  Latin 
and  Greek  with  some  degree  of  facility,  that 
gentleman  employed  all  my  leisure  hours  in 
translations  from  the  classics ;  and  indeed  I 
scarcely  know  a  single  school-book,  of  which  I 
did  not  render  some  portion  into  English  verse. 
Among  others,  JUVENAL  engaged  my  attention, 
or  rather  my  master's,  and  I  translated  the  tenth 
Satire  for  a  holyday  tusk.  Mr.  Smerdon  wa» 
much  pleased  with  this,  (I  was  not  undehghtes. 
with  it  myself,)  and  as  I  was  now  become  for*; 
of  the  author,  he  easily  persuaded  me  to  pro- 
ceed with  him ;  and  I  translated  in  succession 
the  third,  the  fourth,  the  twelfth,  and,  I  think, 
the  eighth  Satires.  As  I  had  no  end  in  view 
but  that  of  giving  a  temporary  satisfaction  to 
my  benefactors,  I  thought  little  more  of  these, 
than  of  many  other  things  of  the  same  nature, 
which  I  wrote  from  time  to  time,  and  of  which 
I  never  copied  a  single  line. 

On  my  removing  to  ExeU-r  College,  however 
my  friend,  ever  attentive  to  my  concerns,  advised 
me  to  copy  my  translation  of  the  tenth  Satire 
and  present  it,  on  my  arrival,  to  the  Rev.  Di 
Stinton,  (afterwards  Rector,)  to  whom  Mr.  Tay 
lor  had  given  me  an  introductory  letter :  I  dit- 
so,  and  it  was  kindly  received.  Thus  encou« 
raged,  I  took  up  the  first  and  second  Satires,  (I 
mention  them  in  the  order  they  were  translated, 
when  my  friend,  who  had  sedulously  watched 
my  progress,  fisst  started  the  idea  of  goinp 
through  the  whole,  and  publishing  it  by  sub- 
scription, as  a  scheme  for  increasing  my  mean* 
of  subsistence.  To  this  I  readily  acceded,  ana 
finished  the  thirteenth,  eleventh,  and  fifteenth 
Satires :  the  remainder  were  the  work  of  a 
much  later  period. 

When  I  had  got  thus  far,  we  thought  it  a  fit 
time  to  mention  our  design ;  it  was  very  gene- 
rally approved  of  by  my  friends ;  and  on  the 
first  of  January,  1781,  the  subscription  was 
opened  by  Mr.  Cookesley  at  Ashburton,  and  by 
myself  at  Exeter  College. 

So  bold  an  undertaking  so  precipitately  an- 
nounced, will  give  the  reader,  I  fear,  a  higher 
opinion  of  my  conceit  than  of  my  talents ;  nei- 
ther the  one  nor  the  other,  however,  had  the 
smallest  concern  with  the  business,  which  origi- 
nated solely  in  ignorance :  I  wrote  verses  with 
great    facility,    and  I   was    simple   enough   to 
imagine   that  little  more  was  necessary  for  a 
translator  of  Juvenal !     I  was  not,  indeed,  uu 
conscious  of  my  inaccuracies  :  I  knew  that  the* 
were  numerous,  and  that  I  had  need  of  sorrt 
friendly  eye  to  point  them  out,  and  some  judt 
cious  hand  to  rectify  or  remove  them :  but  ft> 
these,  as  well  as  for  every  thing  else,  I  lookc.. 
to  Mr.  Cookesley,   and  that   worthy  man,  w; 
his   usual  alacrity   of  kindness,    undertook  tl* 
laborious  task  of  revising  the  whole  translatior. 
My  friend  was  no  great  LatinLst,  perhaps  1  \v;» 
the   better  of  the  two ;  but  he  had   taste  an 


bers,  and  when  subsequent  events  enabled  me  to  renew 
them,  I  was  ashamed  to  inquire  after  what  was  most 
probably  unworthy  of  concern. 


55 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


judgment,  which  I  wanted.  What  advantages 
might  have  been  ultimately  derived  from  them, 
the°re  was  unhappily  no  opportunity  of  ascertain- 
ing, as  it  pleased  the  Almighty  to  call  him  to 
himself  by  a  sudden  death,  before  we  had  quite 
finished  the  first  Satire.  He  died  with  a  letter 
af  mine,  unopened,  in  his  hands. 

This  event,  which  took  place  on  the  15th  of 
January,  1781,  afflicted  me  beyond  measure.* 
I  was  not  only  deprived  of  a  most  faithful  and 
affectionate  friend,  but  of  a  zealous  and  ever 
active  protector,  on  whom  I  confidently  relied 
for  support :  the  sums  that  were  still  necessary 
for  me,  he  always  collected ;  and  it  was  to  be 
feared  that  the  assistance  which  was  not  solicited 
with  warmth,  would  insensibly  cease  to  be  af- 
forded. 

In  many  instances  this  was  actually  the  case  : 
the  desertion,  however,  was  not  general ;  and  I 
was  encouraged  to  hope,  by  the  unexpected 
friendship  of  Servington  Savery,  a  gentleman 
who  voluntarily  stood  forth  as  my  patron,  and 
watched  over  my  interests  with  kindness  and 
attention. 

Some  time  before  Mr.  Cookesley's  death,  we 
had  agreed  that  it  would  be  proper  to  deliver 
out,  with  the  terms  of  subscription,  a  specimen 
of  the  manner  in  which  the  translation  was 
executed.f  To  obviate  any  idea  of  selection,  a 
sheet  was  accordingly  taken  t'rom  the  beginning 
of  the  first  Satire.  My  friend  died  while  it  was 
in  the  press 

After  a  few  melancholy  weeks,  I  resumed  the 
translation  ;  but  found  myself  utterly  incapable 
of  proceeding.  I  had  been  so  accustomed  to 
connect  the  name  of  Mr.  Cookesley  with  every 
part  of  it,  and  I  laboured  with  such  delight  in 
the  hope  of  giving  him  pleasure,  that  now,  when 
he  appeared  to  have  left  me  in  the  midst  of  my 
enterprise,  and  I  was  abandoned  to  my  own 
efforts,  I  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  a  hopeless 
struggle,  without  motive  or  end :  and  his  idea, 
which  was  perpetually  recurring  to  me,  brought 
such  bitter  anguish  with  it,  that  I  shut  up  the 
work  with  feelings  bordering  on  distraction. 

To  relieve  my  mind,  I  had  recourse  to  other 
pursuits.  I  endeavoured  to  become  more  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  classics,  and  to 
acquire  some  of  the  modern  languages :  by  per- 
mission too,  or  rather  recommendation,  of  the 
Rector  and  Fellows,  I  also  undertook  the  care  of 
a  few  pupils :  this  removed  much  of  my  anxiety 
respecting  my  future  means  of  support.  I  have 

•  I  began  this  unadorned  narrative  on  the  15th  of 
.  anuary.  1801 :  twenty  years  have  therefore  elapsed 
«\nce  I  lost  my  benefactor  and  my  friend.  In  the  in- 
terval I  have  wept  a  thousand  times  at  the  recollection 
of  his  goodness ;  I  yet  cherish  his  memory  with  filial 
respect;  and  at  this  distant  period,  my  heart  sinks 
within  me  at  every  repetition  of  his  name. 

+  Many  of  these  papers  were  distributed ;  the  terms, 
which  I  extract  from  one  of  them,  were  these :  "  The 
work  shall  be  printed  in  quarto,  (without  notes,')  and 
be  delivered  to  the  Subscribers  in  the  month  of  Decem- 
ber next. 

"  The  price  will  be  sixteen  shillings  in  boards,  half 
to  be  paid  at  the  time  ot  subscribing,  the  remainder  on 
delivtry  of  the  book." 


a  heartfelt  pleasure  in  mentioning  this  fadul  • 
gence  of  my  college :  it  could  arise  from  nothing 
but  the  liberal  desire  inherent,  I  think,  in  the 
members  of  both  our  Universities,  to  encourage 
every  thing  that  bears  even  the  most  distant  re- 
semblance to  talents;  for  I  had  no  claims  on 
them  from  any  particular  exertions. 

The  lapse  of  many  months  had  now  soothed 
and  tranquillized  my  mind,  and  I  once  more  re- 
turned to  the  translation,  to  which  a  wish  to 
serve  a  young  man  surrounded  with  difficulties 
had  induced  a  number  of  respectable  characters 
to  set  their  names  ;  but  alas,  what  a  mortifica- 
tion !  I  now  discovered,  for  the  first  time,  that 
my  own  inexperience,  and  the  advice  of  my  too, 
too  partial  friend,  had  engaged  me  in  a  work, 
for  the  due  execution  of  which  my  literary  at- 
tainments were  by  no  means  sufficient.  Errors 
and  misconceptions  appeared  in  every  page.  I 
had,  perhaps,  caught  something  of  the  spirit  of 
Juvenal,  but  his  meaning  had  frequently  escaped 
me,  and  I  saw  the  necessity  of  a  long  and  pain- 
ful revision,  which  would  carry  me  far  beyond 
the  period  fixed  for  the  appearance  of  the  vo- 
lume. Alarmed  at  the  prospect,  I  instantly 
resolved  (if  not  wisely,  yet  I  trust  honestly,)  to 
renounce  the  publication  for  the  present. 

In  pursuance  of  this  resolution,  1  wrote  to  my 
friend  in  the  country,  (the  Rev.  Servington  Sa- 
very,) requesting  him  to  return  the  subscription 
money  in  his  hands  to  the  subscribers.  He  did 
not  approve  of  my  plan  ;  nevertheless  he  pro- 
mised, in  a  letter,  which  now  lies  before  me,  to 
comply  with  it;  and,  in  a  subsequent  one,  added 
that  he  had  already  begun  to  do  so. 

For  myself,  I  also  made  several  rej  ayments ; 
and  trusted  a  sum  of  money  to  make  others, 
with  a  fellow  collegian,  who,  not  long  after,  fell 
by  his  own  hands  in  the  presence  of  his  father. 
But  there  were  still  some  whose  abode  could  not 
be  discovered,  and  others,  on  whom  to  press  the 
taking  back  of  eight  shillings  would  neither  be 
decent  nor  respectful :  even  from  these  I  ventured 
to  flatter  myself  that  I  should  find  pardon,  when 
on  some  future  day  I  should  present  them  with 
the  Work,  (which  I  was  still  secretly  determined 
to  complete,)  rendered  more  worthy  of  their 
patronage,  and  increased  by  notes,  which  I  now 
perceived  to  be  absolutely  necessary,  to  more 
than  double  its  proposed  size. 

In  the  leisure  of  a  country  residence,  I  ima- 
gined that  this  might  be  done  in  two  years : 
perhaps  I  was  not  too  sanguine :  the  experi- 
ment, however,  was  not  made,  for  about  this 
time  a  circumstance  happened,  which  changed 
my  views,  and  indeed  my  whole  system  of  life. 

I  had  contracted  an  acquaintance  with  a  per- 
son of  the  name  of ,  recommended  to  my 

particular  notice  by  a  gentleman  of  Devonshire, 
whom  I  was  proud  of  an  opportunity  to  oblige. 
This  person's  residence  at  Oxford  was  not  long, 
and  when  he  returned  to  town  I  maintained  a 
correspondence  with  him  by  letters.  At  his 
particular  request,  these  were  enclosed  in  covers, 
and  sent  to  Lord  Grosvenor:  one  day  I  inad- 
vertently omitted  the  direction,  and  his  lo 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


58 


necessarily  supposing  the  letter  to  be  meant  for 
himself,  opened  and  read  it.  There  was  some- 
thing in  it  which  attracted  his  notice ;  and  when 
he  gave  it  to  my  friend,  he  had  the  curiosity  to 
inquire  about  his  correspondent  at  Oxford  ;  and, 
upon  the  answer  he  received,  the  kindness  to 
desire  that  he  might  be  brought  to  see  him  upon 
his  coming  to  town  :  to  this  circumstance,  purely 
accidental  on  all  sides,  and  to  this  alone,  I  owe 
my  introduction  to  that  nobleman. 

On  my  first  visit,  he  asked  me  what  friends  I 
had,  and  what  were  my  prospects  in  life  ;  and  I 
told  him  that  I  had  no  friends,  and  no  prospects 
of  any  kind.  He  said  no  more ;  but  when  I 
called  to  take  leave,  previous  to  returning  to 
college,  I  found  that  this  simple  exposure  of  my 
cir  umstances  had  sunk  deep  into  his  mind.  At 
parting,  he  informed  me  that  he  charged  himself 
with  my  present  support,  and  future  establish- 
ment ;  and  that  till  this  last  could  be  effected  to 
my  wish,  I  should  come  and  reside  with  him. 
These  were  not  words,  of  course  :  they  were 
more  than  fulfilled  in  every  point.  I  did  go,  and 
reside  with  him ;  and  I  experienced  a  warm  and 
cordial  reception,  a  kind  and  affectionate  esteem, 
that  has  known  neither  diminution  nor  interrup- 
tion from  that  hour  to  this,  a  period  of  twenty 
<  ears  I* 

In  his  lordship's  house  I  proceeded  with  Ju- 
venal, till  I  was  called  upon  to  accompany  his 
son  (one  of  the  most  amiable  and  accomplished 
young  noblemen  that  this  country,  fertile  in  such 
characters,  could  ever  boast)  to  the  continent 
With  him,  in  two  successive  tours,  I  spent  many 
years;  years  of  which  the  remembrance  will 
always  be  dear  to  me,  from  the  recollection  that 
a  friendship  was  then  contracted,  which  time 
and  a  more  intimate  knowledge  of  each  other, 
have  mellowed  into  a  regard  that  forms  at  once 
the  pride  and  happiness  of  my  life. 

It  is  long  since  I  have  been  returned  and 
settled  in  the  bosom  of  competence  and  peace ; 
my  translation  frequently  engaged  my  thoughts, 
but  I  had  lost  the  ardour  and  the  confidence  of 
youth,  and  was  seriously  doubtful  of  my  abilities 
to  do  it  justice.  I  ht,te  wished  a  thousand 
times  that  I  could  decline  it  altogether ;  but  the 
ever-recurring  idea  that  there  were  people  of 
the  description  already  mentioned,  who  had  just 
and  forcible  claims  on  me  for  the  due  perform- 
ance of  my  engagement,  forbad  the  thought ; 
and  I  slowly  proceeded  towards  the  completion 
of  a  work  in  which  I  should  never  have  engaged, 
had  my  friend's  inexperience,  or  my  own,  suf- 


*  I  have  a  melancholy  satisfaction  in  recording  that 
this  revered  friend  and  patron  lived  to  witness  my 
grateful  acknowledgment  of  his  kindness.  He  sur- 
vived the  appearance  of  the  translation  but  a  very  few 
days,  and  I  paid  the  last  sad  duty  to  his  memory,  by 
attending  his  remains  to  the  grave.  To  me — this  la- 
borious work  has  not  been  happy :  the  same  disastrous 
event  .that  marked  its  commencement,  has  embittered 
its  conclusion;  and  frequently  forced  upon  my  recol- 
lection the  calamity  of  the  rebuilder  of  Jericho,  "  He 
Imrl  the  foundation  thereof  in  Abiram,  his  first  born, 
and  set  up  the  gates  thereof  in  his  youngest  son,  Se- 
r»*>."  1806. 


fered  us  to  suspect  for  a  moment  the  labour,  and 
the  talents  of  more  than  one  kind,  absolutely 
necessary  to  its  success  in  any  tolerable  degree , 
Such  as  I  could  make  it,  it  is  now  before  the 
public. 


rnajora  canamus. 


End  of  the  Memoir. 


Mr. 

Having  attained  an  university  education 
by  private  benevolence,  and  arrived  at  noble 
and  powerful  patronage  by  a  circurnstance 
purely  accidental  Mr.  Gifford  possessed 
advantages  which  few  in  humble  life  dare 
hope,  and  fewer  aspire  to  achieve.  He 
improved  his  learned  leisure  and  patrician 
aid,  till,  in  1802,  he  published  his  transla- 
tion of  Juvenal,  with  a  dedication  to  earl 
Grosvenor,  and  the  preceding  memoir.  In 
1806,  the  work  ariived  to  a  second  edition, 
and  in  1817  to  a  third  ;  to  the  latter  he  an- 
nexed a  translation  of  the  Satires  of  Per- 
sius,  which  he  likewise  dedicated  to  earl 
Grosvenor,  with  "  admiration  of  his  talents 
and  virtues."  He  had  previously  distin- 
guished himself  by  the  "  Baviad  and  Mae- 
viad,"  a  satire  unsparingly  severe  on  certain 
fashionable  poetry  and  characters  of  the 
day ;  and  which  may  perhaps  be  referred 
to  as  the  best  specimen  of  his  powers  and 
inclination.  He  edited  the  plays  of  Mas- 
singer,  and  the  works  of  Ben  Jonson,  whom 
'  he  ably  and  successfully  defended  from 
charges  of  illiberal  disposition  towards 
Shakspeare,  and  calumnies  of  a  personal 
nature,  which  had  been  repeated  and  in- 
creased by  successive  commentators.  He 
lived  to  see  his  edition  of  Ford's  works 
through  the  press,  and  Shirley's  works  were 
nearly  completed  by  the  printer  before  he 
died. 

When  the  "  Quarterly  Review  "  was 
projected,  Mr.  Gifford  was  selected  as  best 
qualified  to  conduct  the  new  journal,  and 
he  remained  its  editor  till  within  two  years 
preceding  his  death.  Besides  the  private 
emoluments  of  his  pen,  Mr.  Gifford  had 
six  hundred  pounds  a  year  as  a  comptroller 
of  the  lottery,  and  a  salary  of  three  hun- 
dred pounds  as  paymaster  of  the  band  of 
gentlemen-pensioners. 


To  his  friend,  Dr.  Ireland,  the  dean  of 
Westminster,  who  was  the  depositary  of 
Mr.  Gifford 's  wishes  in  his  last  moments, 
he  addressed,  during  their  early  career,  the 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


6:) 


following  imitation  of  the  "  Otium  t»os 
liogat "  of  Horace. — "  I  transcribe  it,"  says 
Mr.  Giflbrd,  "  for  the  press,  with  mingled 
sensations  of  gratitude  and  delight,  at  the 
favourable  change  of  circumstances  which 
we  have  both  experienced  since  it  was 
written." 

Wolfe  rush'd  on  death  in  manhood's  bloom, 
Paulet  crept  slowly  to  the  tomb ; 

Here  breath,  there  fame  was  given  : 
And  that  wise  Power  who  weighs  oar  lives, 
By  eontras,  and  by  pros,  contrives 

To  keep  the  balance  even. 

To  th'ee  ske  gave  two  piercing  eyes, 
A  body,  just  of  Tydeus'  size, 

A  judgment  sound,  and  clear  ; 
.A  mind  with  various  science  fraught, 
A  liberal  soul,  a  threadbare  coat, 

And  forty  pounds  a  year. 

To  me,  one  eye,  not  over  good ; 

Two  sides,  that,  to  their  cost,  have  stood 

A  ten  years'  hectic  cough ; 
Aches,  stitches,  all  the  numerous  ills 
That  swell  the  dev'lish  doctors'  bills, 

And  sweep  poor  mortals  off. 

A  coat  more  bare  than  thine ;  a  soul 
That  spurns  the  crowd's  malign  controul ; 

A  fix'd  contempt  of  wrong ; 
Spirits  above  affliction's  pow'r, 
And  skill  to  charm  the  lonely  hour 

With  no  inglorious  song. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  following  is  a  literal  copy  of  an 
English  card,  circulated  by  the  master  of 
an  hotel,  at  Ghent : — 

"Mr.  Dewit,  in  the  Golden  Apple,  out 
of  the  Bruges  Gate  at  Ghent,  has  the 
honour  to  prevent  the  Persons  who  would 
come  at  his  house,  that  they  shall  find  there 
always  good  and  spacious  Lodging,  a  Table 
served  at  their  taste,  Wine  of  any  quality, 
ect.  Besides  he  hires  Horses  and  Chaises^ 
which  shall  be  of  a  great  conveniency  for 
the  Travellers  ;  the  Bark  of  Bruges  depart 
and  arrives  every  day  before  his  door.  He 
dares  flatter  himself  that  they  shall  be 
satisfied,-  as  well  with  the  cheapness  ot 
the  price,  as  with  the  cares  such  an  esta- 
blishment requires." 


CAPITAL  FOR  BANKING. 

A  nobleman's  footman  in  Hampshire,  to 
whom    two   years'   wages  were   due,   de- 


manded the  sum  from  his  master,  and  gave 
notice  that  he  would  quit  his  place.  The 
master  inquired  the  reason  of  the  man's 
precipitancy,  who  told  his  lordship,  "  that 
he  and  a  fellow-servant  were  about  to  set 
up  a  country  bank,  and  they  wanted  the 
wages  for  a  capital .'" 


MARCH  OF  INTELLECT. 

In  "The  Times,"  a  few  days  since,  ap- 
peared the  following  advertisement : — "  To 
SCHOOL  ASSISTANTS. — Wanted,  a  respect- 
able gentleman  of  good  character,  capable 
of  teaching  the  classics  as  far  as  Homer, 
and  Virgil.  Apply,  &c.  &c.  A  day  or 
two  a,fter  the  above  had  appeared,  the  gen- 
tleman to  whom  application  was  to  be 
made  received  a  letter  as  follows  : — "  Sir — 
With  reference  to  an  advertisement  which 
were  inserted  in  The  Times  newspaper  a 
few  days  since,  respecting  a  school  assist- 
ant, I  beg  to  state  that  I  should  be  happy 
to  fill  that  situation ;  but  as  most  of  my 
frends  reside  in  London,  and  not  knowing 
how  far  Homer  and  Virgil  is  from  town,  I 
beg  to  state  that  I  should  not  like  to  engage 
to  teach  the  classics  farther  than  Hammer- 
smith or  Turnham  Green,  or  at  the  very  ut- 
most distance,  farther  than  Brentford, 
Wat'mg  your  reply,  I  am,  Sir,  &c.  &c. 

"  John  Sparks." 

The  schoolmaster,  judging  of  the  clas- 
sical abilities  of  this  "  youth  of  promise," 
by  the  wisdom  displayed  in  his  letter,  con- 
sidered him  too  dull  a  spark  for  the  situa- 
tion, and  his  letter  remained  unanswered. 
(This  puts  us  in  mind  of  a  person  who  once 
advertised  for  a  "  strong  coal  heaver,"  and 
a  poor  man  calling  upon  him  the  day  after, 
saying,  "  he  had  not  got  such  a  thing  as  a 
'  strong  coal  heaver,1  but  he  had  brought 
a  'strong  coal  scuttle,1  made  of  the  best 
iron  ;  and  if  that  would  answer  the  purpose, 
he  should  have  it  a  bargain.") — -Times,  \st 
January,  1827 


MISSING  A  STYLE. 

Soon  after  the  publication  of  Miss  Bur- 
ney's  novel,  called  "  Cecilia,"  a  young  lady 
was  found  reading  it.  After  the  general 
topics  of  praise  were  exhausted,  she  was 
asked  whether  she  did  not  greatly  admire 
the  style  ?  Reviewing  the  incidents  in  her 
memory,  she  replied,  "  The  style  ?  the 
style? — Oh!  sir,  I  am  not  come  to  that 
yet  I" 


iHE  TABLE  BOOK. 


:l  I,  that  do  bring  the  news." 

SArtAspfan?- 

Our  calling,  however  the  vulga*  may  deem, 
Was  of  old,  both  on  high  and  below,  in  esteem  . 
E'en  the  gods  were  to  much  curiosity  given. 
For  Hermes  was  only  the  Newsman  of  heaven. 
Hence  with  wings  to  his  cap,  and  his  staff,  and  his  heels, 
He  depictured  appears,  which  our  myst'ry  reveals, 
That  news  flies  like  wind,  to  raise  sorrow  or  laughter, 
Whi)p  leaning  on  Time,  Truth  comes  heavily  after. 

Newsmen's  Verses,  1747- 
Th?  newsman  is  a  "  lone  person."     His         All  the  year  round,  and  every  day  in  tie 
ousiness,  and  he,  are  distinct  from  all  other     year,  the  newsman  must  rise  soon  after  font 
occupations,  and  people,  o'clock,  and  be  at  the  newspaper  ofiices  to 

Vol.  I.— 3. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


64 


procure   a  few  of  the    first    morning   pa- 
pers allotted   to  him,  at  extra  charges,  for 
particular  orders,  and  despatch  them  by  the 
"  early  coaches."  Afterwards,  he  has  to  wait 
for  his  share  of  the  "  regular  "  publication 
ftP  each  paper,  and  he  allots  these  as  well 
as  he  can  among  some  of  the  most  urgent  of 
his  town  orders.     The  next  publication  at 
A  later  hour  is  devoted  to  his   remaining 
customers  ;  and  he  sends  off  his  boys  with 
different  portions  according  to  the  supply 
he  successively  receives.  Notices  frequently 
and  necessarily  printed  in  different  papers, 
of  the  hour  of  final  publication  the  pre- 
ceding day,  guard  the  interests  of  the  news- 
paper proprietors  from  the  sluggishness  of 
ihe   indolent,   and    quicken    the    diligent 
newsman.  Yet,  however  skilful  his  arrange- 
ments may  be,  they  are  subject  to  unlocked 
for  accidents.     The  late  arrival  of  foreign 
journals,  a  parliamentary  debate  unexpect- 
edly protracted,  or  an  article  of  importance 
in  one  paper  exclusively,  retard  the  print- 
ing and  defer  the  newsman.    His  patience, 
well-worn  before  he  gets  his  "  last  papers," 
must  be  continued  during  the  whole  period 
he  is  occupied  in  delivering  them.     The 
sheet  is  sometimes  half  snatched  before  he 
can  draw  it  from  his  wrapper  ;  he  is  often 
chid  for  delay  when  he  should  have  been 
praised   for  speed ;   his  excuse,   "  All  the 
papers  were  late  this  morning,"  is  better 
heard  lhan  admitted,  for  neither  giver  nor 
receiver  has  time  to  parley  ;  and  before  he 
gets  home  to  dinner,  he  hears  at  one  house 
that  "  Master  has  waited  for  the  paper  these 
two  hours ;"  at  another,  "  Master's  gone 
out,  and  says  if  you  can't  bring  the  paper 
earlier,  he  won't  have  it  all ;"  and  some 
ill-conditioned  "  master,"  perchance,  leaves 
positive  orders,  "  Don't  take  it  in,  but  tell 
the  man  to  bring  the  bill ;  and  I'll  pay  it 
and  have  done  with  him." 

Besides  buyers,  every  newsman  has  read- 
ers at  so  much  each  paper  per  hour.  One 
class  stipulates  for  a  journal  always  at 
breakfast;  another,  that  it  is  to  be  deli- 
vered exactly  at  such  a  time ;  a  third,  at 
any  time,  so  that  it  is  left  the  full  hour ;  and 
among  all  of  these  there  are  malecontents, 
who  permit  nothing  of  "  time  or  circum- 
stance" to  interfere  with  their  personal  con- 
venience. Though  the  newsman  delivers, 
and  allows  the  use  of  his  paper,  and  fetches 
it,  for  a  stipend  not  half  equal  to  the  lowest 
paid  portur's  price  for  letter-carrying  in 
London,  yet  he  finds  some,  with  whom  he 
covenanted,  objecting,  when  it  is  called  for, 
— "  I've  not  had  my  breakfast,"—"  The 

paper  did  not  come  at  the  proper  time," 

"  I've  not  had  leisure  to  look  at  it  fet,"— 


"  It  has  not  been  left  an  hour," — or  any 
other  pretence  equally  futile  or  untrue, 
which,  were  he  to  allow, -would  prevent  him 
from  serving  his  leaders  in  rotation,  or  a* 
all.  If  he  can  get  all  his  morning  papers 
from  these  customers  by  four  o'clock,  he  is 
a  happy  man. 

Soon  after  three  in  the  afternoon,  the 
newsman  and  some  of  his  boys  must  be  at 
the  offices  of  the  evening  papers ;  but  be- 
fore he  can  obtain  his  requisite  numbers, 
he  must  wait  till  the  newsmen  of  the  Royal 
Exchange  have  received  theirs,  for  the 
use  of  the  merchants  on  'Change.  Some 
of  the  first  he  gets  are  hurried  off  to  coffee- 
house and  tavern  keepers.  When  he  has 
procured  his  full  quantity,  he  supplies  the 
remainder  of  his  town  customers.  These 
disposed  of,  then  comes  the  hasty  folding 
and  directing  of  his  reserves  for  the  coun- 
try, and  the  forwarding  of  them  to  the 
post-office  in  Lombard -street,  or  in  parcels 
for  the  mails,  and  to  other  coach-offices. 
The  Gazette  nights,  every  Tuesday  and 
Friday,  add  to  his  labours, — the  publi- 
cation of  second  and  third  editions  of  the 
evening  papers  is  a  super-addition.  ( )n 
what  he  calls  a  "  regular  day,"  he  is  fortu- 
nate if  he  find  himself  settled  within  his 
own  door  by  seven  o'clock,  after  fifteen 
hours  of  running  to  and  fro.  It  is  now 
only  that  he  can  review  the  business  of  the 
day,  enter  his  fresh  orders,  ascertain  how 
many  of  each  paper  he  will  require  on  the 
morrow,  arrange  his  accounts,  provide  for 
the  money  he  may  have  occasion  for,  eat 
the  only  quiet  meal  he  could  reckon  upon 
since  that  of  the  evening  before,  and  "  steal 
a  few  hours  from  the  night"  for  needful 
rest,  before  he  rises  the  next  morning  to  a 
day  of  the  like  incessant  occupation :  and 
thus  from  Monday  to  Saturday  he  labours 
every  day. 

The  newsman  desires  no  work  but  his 
own  to  prove  "  Sunday  no  Sabbath ;"  for 
on  "him  and  his  brethren  devolves  the  cir- 
culation of  upwards  of  fifty  thousand  Sun- 
day papers  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon. 
His  Sunday  dinner  is  the  only  meal  he  can 
ensure  with  his  family,  and  the  short  re- 
mainder of  the  day  the  only  time  he  can 
enjoy  in  their  society  with  certainty,  or 
extract  something  from,  for  more  serious 
duties  or  social  converse. 

The  newsman's  is  an  out-of-door  busi- 
ness at  all  seasons,  and  his  life  is  measured 
out  to  unceasing  toil.  In  all  weathers, 
hail,  rain,  wind,  and  snow,  he  is  daily  con- 
strained to  the  way  and  the  fare  of  a  way- 
faringman.  He  walks,  or  rather  runs,  to  dis- 
tribute information  concerning  all  sorts  of 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


circumstances  and  persons,  except  his  own. 
fie  is  unable  to  allow  himself,  or  others,  time 
for  intimacy,  and  therefore,  unless  he  had 
formed  friendships  before  he  took  to  his  ser- 
vitude, he  has  not  the  chance  of  cultivating 
them,  save  with  persons  of  the  same  calling. 
He  may  be  said  to  have  been  divorced,  and 
to  live  "  separate  and  apart  "  from  society 
'°n  general ;  for,  though  he  mixes  with  every 
body,  it  is  only  for  a  few  hurried  moments, 
and  as  strangers  do  in  a  crowd. 

Cowper's  familiar  description  of  a  news~ 
paper,  with  its  multiform  intelligence,  and 
the  pleasure  of  reading  it  in  the  country, 
never  tires,  and  in  this  place  is  to  the  pur- 
pose. 

This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work  1 
Which  not  ev'n  critics  criticise ;  that  holds 
Inquisitive  Attention,  while  I  read, 
Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair, 
Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break, 
What  is  it,  but  a  map  of  busy  life, 
Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns? 
Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages 


• • The  grand  debate, 

The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply, 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 
And  the  loud  laugh  - 


Cat'racts  of  declamation  thunder  here  ; 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page, 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there, 

With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes. 

The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 

But  gay  confusion ;  roses  for  the  cheeks, 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age, 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald, 

Heav'n,  earth,  and  ocean,  plunder'd  of  their  sweets, 

N«ctareous  essences,  Olympian  dews, 

Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  fav'rite  airs, 

Ethereal  .iournies,  submarine  exploits, 

And  Katerfelto,  with  his  hair  an  end 

At  his  own  wonders,  wand'ring  for  his  bread. 

'Tis  pleasant,  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat, 
To  peep  at  such  a  world;  to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates, 
At  a  safa  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  th'  uninjured  ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus,  at  ease, 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 
That  lib'rates  and  exempts  us  from  them  all. 

This  is  an  agreeable  and  true  picture , 
and,  with  like  felicity,  the  poet  paints  the 
bearer  of  the  newspaper. 

Hark!  'tis  the  twanging  horn  o'er  yonder  bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright;  — 
.ve  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world, 


With  spatter' d  boots,  strap p'd  waist,  and  frozen  locks 

News  from  all  nations  lumb'ring  at  his  back. 

True  to  his  charge,  the  close  pack'd  load  behind 

Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 

Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destin'd  inn ; 

And,  having  dropp'd  th'  expected  bag,  pass  on. 

He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch, 

Cold  and  yet  cheerful  t  messenger  of  grief 

Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some  ; 

To  him  indiff 'rent  whether  grief  or  joy. 

Methinks,  as  I  have  always  thought,  that 
Cowper  here  missed  the  expression  of  a 
kind  feeling,  and  rather  tends  to  raise  an 
ungenerous  sentiment  towards  this  poor 
fellow.  As  the  bearer  of  intelligence,  of 
which  he  is  ignorant,  why  should  it  be 

"  To  him  indifFrent  whether  grief  or  joy  ?" 

If  <*cold,  and  yet  cheerful,"  he  has  at- 
tained to  the  "  practical  philosophy  "  of 
bearing  ills  with  patience.  He  is  a  frozen 
creature  that  "  whistles,"  and  therefore 
called  "light-hearted  wretch."  The  poet 
refrains  to  "look  with  a  gentle  eye  upon 
this  wretch"  but,  having  obtained  the 
newspaper,  determines  to  enjoy  himself, 
and  cries 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 
That  cheer,  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  ev'ning  in. 

This  done,  and  the  bard  surrounded  with 
means  of  enjoyment,  he  directs  his  sole 
attention  to  the  newspaper,  nor  spares  a 
thought  in  behalf  of  the  wayworn  messen- 
ger, nor  bids  him  "  God  speed !"  on  his 
further  forlorn  journey  through  the  wintry 
blast. 

In  London  scarcely  any  one  knows  the 
newsman  but  a  newsman.  His  customers 
know  him  least  of  all.  Some  of  them 
seem  almost  ignorant  that  he  has  like 
"  senses,  affections,  passions,"  with  them- 
selves, or  is  "  subject  to  the  same  diseases, 
healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and 
cooled  by  the  same  winter  and  summer." 
They  are  indifferent  to  him  in  exact  ratio 
to  their  attachment  to  what  he  "serves" 
them  with.  Their  regard  is  for  the  news 
paper,  and  not  the  newsman.  Should  he 
succeed  in  his  occupation,  they  do  not 
hear  of  it :  if  he  fail,  they  do  not  care  for 
it.  If  he  dies,  the  servant  receives  thfc 
paper  from  his  successor,  and  says,  when 
she  carries  it  up  stairs,  "  If  you  please,  the 
newsman's  dead :"  they  scarcely  ask  where 
he  lived,  or  his  fall  occasions  a  pun — "  We 
always  said  he  was,  and  now  we  have 


THE  TABLE  B'X)K. 


proof  that  he  w,  the  lute  newsman."  They 
are  almost  as  unconcerned  as  if  he  had  been 
the  postman. 

Once  a  year,  a  printed  "  copy  of  verses  " 
reminds  every  newspaper  reader  that  the 
hand  that  bore  it  is  open  to  a  small  boon. 
"  The  Newsman's  Address  to  his  Customers, 
1826,"  deploringly  adverts  to  the  general 
distress,  patriotically  predicts  better  times, 
and  seasonably  intimates,  that  in  the  height 
of  annual  festivities  he,  too,  has  a  heart 
capable  of  joy. 

«•  although  the  muse  complains 

And  sings  of  woes  in  melancholy  strains. 
Yet  Hope,  at  last,  strikes  up  her  trembling  wires. 
And  bids  Despair  forsake  your  glowing  ares. 
While,  as  in  olden  time,  Heaven's  gifts  you  share, 
And  Englishmen  enjoy  their  Christmas  fare ; 
While  at  the  social  board  friend  joins  with  friend. 
And  smiles  and  jokes  and  salutations  blend; 
Your  Newsman  wishes  to  be  social  too, 
And  would  enjoy  the  opening  year  with  you : 
Grant  him  your  annual  gift,  he  will  not  fail 
To  drink  your  health  once  more  with  Christmas  ale : 
Long  may  you  live  to  share  your  Christmas  cheer, 
And  he  still  wish  you  many  a  happy  year  I" 

The  losses  and  crosses  to  which  news- 
men are  subject,  and  the  minutiae  of  their 
laborious  life,  would  form  an  instructive 
volume.  As  a  class  of  able  men  of  busi- 
ness, their  importance  is  established  by  ex- 
cellent regulations,  adapted  to  their  inter- 
ests and  well-being;  and  their  numerous 
society  includes  many  individuals  of  high 
intelligence,  integrity,  and  opulence. 


JBrama. 

LICENSE  FOR  ENACTING  A  PLAY. 

To  the  Editor. 

Sir, — As  many  of  your  readers  may  not 
have  had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  the 
form  and  manner  in  which  dramatic  repre- 
sentations were  permitted,  by  the  Master 
of  the  Revels,  upon  the  restoration  of  the 
Stuarts,  I  submit  a  transcript  of  a  licence 
in  my  possession.  It  refers  to  a  drama,  call- 
ed "  Noah's  Flood,"  apparently  not  re- 
corded in  any  dramatic  history.  It  is 
true,  Isaac  Reed,  in  the  "  Biographia  Dra- 
matica,"  1782,  vol.ii.  p.  255, cites  "  Noah's 
Flood,  or  the  Destruction  of  the  World, 
an  opera,  1679,  4to.,"  and  ascribes  it  to 
'  Edward  Ecclestone,"  but  it  is  question- 
able whether  this  was  the  "  play "  for 
which  the  license  below  was  obtained,  as 
Reed,  or  perhaps  George  Steevens,  the 
commentator,  who  assisted  the  former  con- 


siderably in  the  compilation  of  that  work, 
as  it  appeared  in  1782,  expressly  entitles  it 
"  an  opera." 

Reed  states  his  inability  to  furnish  any 
particulars  of  Ecclestone,  and  his  continua- 
tor,  Mr.  Stephen  Jones,  has  not  added  a 
single  word.  Ecclestone  was  a  comedian, 
though  I  cannot  immediately  cite  my  au- 
thority. His  opera  of  "  Noah's  Flood," 
which  is  excessively  scarce,  is  said,  by 
Reed,  to  be  "  of  the  same  nature  with  Dry- 
den's  '  State  of  Innocence,'  but  falls  infi- 
nitely short  of  the  merit  of  that  poem." 
This  may  be  readily  believed  ;  for  we  are 
informed  that  the  unhappy  bookseller,  to 
prevent  the  whole  impression  rotting  oc 
his  shelves,  again  obtruded  it  for  public 
patronage,  with  a  new  title,  "  The  Cata- 
clasm,  or  General  Deluge  of  the  World," 
1684,  4to. ;  and  again  as  "The  Deluge,  or 
Destruction  of  the  World,"  1691,  4to.,  with 
the  addition  of  sculptures  These  attempts 
probably  exhausted  the  stock  on  hand,  as, 
some  years  afterwards,  it  was  reprinted  ic 
12mo.,  with  the  title  of  "  Noah's  Flood,  or 
the  History  of  the  General  Deluge,"  1714 
Many  plays  were  reprinted  by  Meares, 
Feales,  and  others,  at  the  commencement 
of  the  last  century,  as  stock-plays ;  and 
Reed's  assertion,  that  this  was  an  imposi- 
tion, is  correct,  so  far  as  it  came  forth  as  a 
new  production,  the  preface  stating  that 
the  author  was  unknown. 

The  license  alluded  to  is  on  a  square 
piece  of  parchment,  eleven  inches  high,  by 
thirteen  wide.  The  office  seal,  red  wax, 
covered  by  a  piece  of  white  paper,  is  en- 
graved in  one  of  the  volumes  of  George 
Chalmers's  "  Apology  for  the  Believers  of 
the  Shakspeare  Papers." 

The  License. 

"  To  all  Mayors  Sherriffs  Justices  of  the 
Peace  Bayliffs  Constables  Headboroughs, 
and  all  other  his  Maties.  Officers,  true 
Leigmen  &  loueing  Subiects,  &  to  euery 
of  them  greeting.  Know  yee  that  wheras 
George  Bayley  of  London  Musitioner  de- 
sires of  me  a  Placard  to  make  Shew  of  a 
Play  called  Noah's  fflood  wth  other  Seue- 
rall  Scenes.  These  are  therfore  by  vertue 
of  his  Maties.  Lettrs.  Patients  made  ouer 
vnto  me  vnder  the  great  Scale  of  England 
to  licence  &  allow  the  said  George  Bayley 
wth  eight  Servants  wch  are  of  his  Com- 
pany to  make  shew  of  the  said  Play  called 
Noah's  flood  wth  other  Scenes  requireing 
you  and  euery  of  you  in  his  Maties  Name 
to  pmitt  &  Suffer  the  said  Persons  to  shew 
the  said  Play  called  Noah's  flood,  and  to 
be  aiding  &  assisting  them  &  euery  of  them 


69 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


70 


if  any  wrong  or  iniury  be  offered  vnto  him 
or  any  of  them  Provided  that  he  and  they 
doe  not  act  any  thing  offensiue  against  ye 
lawes  of  God  or  of  the  Land,  and  that  he 
&  they  doe  make  shew  of  the  said  Noah's 
flood  at  lawful!  times  wth  Exception  of  the 
Lords  Day  or  any  other  Day  in  the  time 
of  Devine  Service,  or  on  any  other  day 
prohibited  by  Proclamation  or  other  law- 
full  Authority.  And  this  Licence  to  con- 
tinue for  a  year  and  noe  longre  from  the 
day  of  the  date  hearof  and  to  Serue  through- 
out the  Kingdome  of  England  Scotland  & 
Ireland  &  all  other  his  Maties.  Territories 
&  Dominions  the  said  Geo.  Bayly  haueing 
giuen  me  security  for  his  good  behauiour 
that  hee  doe  not  intrench  vpon  the  lawes 
of  the  land.  Giuen  at  his  Maties.  Office  of 
the  Revills  vnder  my  hand  8c  Seale  of  the 
said  Office  the  fowerteenth  day  of  A  prill 
one  thousand  six  hundred  sixty  and  two  & 
in  the  fowerteenth  year  of  the  raigne  of  o'r 
Soueraigne  Lord  Charles  ye  Second  by  the 
grace  of  God  of  England  Scotland  ffrance 
and  Ireland  King  Defender  of  the  faith  &c. 

J.  POYNTZ. 

A  marginal  memorandum,  below  the  seal, 
contains  a  direction  to  the  persons  named 
in  this  license,  thus  : — 

"  You  are  to  allow  him  either  Town  hall 
Guild  hall  Schoole  house  or  some  other  con- 
venient place  for  his  use  &  to  continue  in 
any  one  place  for  ye  space  of  fforty 
Daies." 

The  above  transcript  is  literal  in  every 
respect :  and  trusting  that  it  may  be  deem- 
ed worthy  insertion, 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

WILL  o'  THE  WHISP. 


The  identical  seal  of  the  office  of  the 
Revels,  mentioned  in  the  preceding  letter, 
was  engraven  on  wood,  and  is  now  in  the 
possession  of  Francis  Douce,  Esq.  F.  S.  A. 


THOMAS  AIRAY, 

THE  GRASSINGTON  MANAGER  AND  HIS 
THEATRICAL  COMPANY,  CRAVEN,  YORK- 
SHIRE. 

For  the  Table  Book. 

*  Nothing  like  this  in  London .'" 

John  Reeve  in  Peregrine  Proteus. 

At  this  season,  every  thing  appears  dull 
and  lifeless  in  the  neighbourhood  of  my 
favourite  mountain  village.  In  my  younger 
days  it  was  otherwise.  Christmas  was  then 


a  festival,  enlivened  by  a  round  of  innocent 
amusements,  which  the  present  enlightened 
age  has  pronounced  superstitious  or  trifling. 
Formerly  we  hfd  a  theatre,  at  this  season, 
and  perhaps  a  few  particulars  relating  to  it 
may  not  be  uninteresting. 

Gentle  reader !  should  you  ever  visit 
Skipton-in-Craven,  go  on  the  market-day, 
and  stand  opposite  to  the  vicarage-house  in 
the  High-street ;  there  you  will  see  a  cart 
with  this  inscription,  "  Thomas  Airay, 
Grassington  and  Skipton  carrier."  Keep 
your  eye  on  that  cart,  and  about  the  hour 
of  three  in  the  afternoon  you  will  behold 
approach  the  owner,  a  little,  fat,  old  man, 
with  reddish  whiskers  and  a  jolly  face,  that 
Listen  or  John  Reeve  would  not  be  ashamed 
to  possess.  In  that  countenance  a  mere 
tyro  in  physiognomy  may  discover  a  roguish 
slyness,  a  latent  archness,  a  hidden  mine  of 
fun  and  good  humour.  Then  when  Airay 
walks,  mark  his  stately  gait,  and  tell  me  if 
it  does  not  proclaim  that  he  has  worn  the 
sock  and  buskin,  and  trod  the  Thespian 
floor :  he  was  the  manager  of  the  Grassing- 
ton theatre — the  "  Delawang  "  of  Craven. 

I  fancy  some  rigid  moralist  bestowing  a 
cold  glance  on  poor  Tom,  and  saying  to 
himself,  "  Ah,  old  man,  this  comes  of 
acting ;  had  you,  in  your  youth,  followed 
some  industrious  pursuit,  nor  joined  as 
idle  strolling  company,  instead  of  now 
being  a  country  carrier,  you  might  have 
been  blessed  with  a  comfortable  indepen- 
dence !"  Think  not  so  harshly  of  Airay ; 
though  not  the  manager  of  a  patent  theatre, 
nor  of  one  "  by  royal  authority,"  he  never 
was  a  stroller,  nor  an  associate  with  vaga- 
bonds, nor  did  he  ever,  during  his  theatrical 
career,  quake  under  the  terrors  of  magis- 
terial harshness,  or  fear  the  vagrant  act. 

No  idle,  worthless,  wandering  man  was  he, 
Bnt  in  the  dales,  of  honest  parents  bred, 

Train'd  to  a  life  of  honest  industry, 
Hi-  with  the  lark  in  summer  left  his  bed, 
Thro'  the  sweet  calm,  by  morning  twilight  shed, 

Walking  to  labour  by  that  cheerful  song, 
And,  making  a  pure  pleasure  of  a  tread, 

When  winter  came  with  nights  so  dark  and  long, 

'Twas  his,  with  mimic  art,  to  amuse  a  village  throng  1 

Tom  Airay's  sole  theatre  was  at  Grass- 
ington ;  and  that  was  only  "  open  for  the 
season  " — for  a  few  weeks  in  the  depth  of 
winter,  when  the  inclemency  of  the  weather, 
which  in  these  mountainous  parts  is  very 
severe,  rendered  the  agricultural  occupa- 
tions of  himself  and  companions  impossi- 
ble to  be  pursued.  They  chose  rather  to 
earn  a  scanty  pittance  by  acting,  than  to 
trouble  their  neighbours  for  eleemosynary 
support. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK 


The  corpt  dramatique  of  Tom  Airay 
consisted  chiefly  of  young  men,  (they  had 
no  actresses,)  who  moved  in  the  same  line 
of  life  as  the  manager,  and  whose  characters 
were  equally  respectable  with  his,  which  was 
always  unassailable;  for,  setting  aside  our 
hero's  occasionally  getting  tipsy  at  some  of 
the  neighbouring  feasts,  nothing  can  be 
said  against  him.  He  is  a  worthy  member 
of  society,  has  brought  up  a  large  family 
respectably,  and,  if  report  speak  truth,  has 
realized  about  a  thousand  pounds. 

Few  of  Tom  Airay's  company  are  living, 
and  the  names  of  many  have  escaped  me. 

There  was  honest  Peter  W ,  whose  face 

peeped  from  behind  the  green  curtain  like 
the  full  moon.  He  was  accounted  a  bit  of 
a  wag  :  ever  foremost  in  mischief,  he,  more 
than  once,  almost  blew  up  the  stage  by  gun- 
powder, .half  suffocated  the  audience  by 
assafcetida,  and  was  wont  to  put  hot  cin- 
ders in  the  boots  of  his  associates.  He 
has  "  left  the  mimic  scene  to  die  indeed," 
and  sleeps  peacefully  under  the  beautiful 
lime-trees  of  Kirby  Malhamdale  church- 
yard, undisturbed  by  the  murmur  of  that 
mountain  stream,  which,  rippling  over  its 
pebbly  channel,  hymns,  as  it  were,  his  re- 
quiem. Then  there  was  Isaac  G ,  the 

fiddler  and  comic  singer  :  he  exists  no  longer. 
There  was  Waddilove,  and  Frankland  of 
Helton,  and  Bill  Cliff,  the  Skipton  poet 
and  bailiff — all  dead !  There  were,  also, 
the  Hetheringtons,  and  Jack  Solomon  the 
besom  maker,  and  Tommy  Summersgill  the 

barber  and  clock  maker,  and  Jack  L 

the  politician  of  Threshfield,  who  regarded 
John  Wilkes  as  his  tutelary  saint,  and  settled 
in  the  Illinois,  from  whence  he  occasionally 
sends  a  letter  to  his  old  friends,  informing 
them  what  a  paltry  country  England  is, 
what  a  paradise  the  new  world  is,  and  how 
superior  the  American  rivers  are  to  those 

"  That  through  our  rallies  run 

Singing  and  dancing  in  the  gleams 
Of  summer's  cloudless  sun." 

Besides  these,  there  were  fifteen  or  six- 
teen others  from  Arncliffe,  Litton,  Coniston, 
Kilnsay,  and  the  other  romantic  villages 
that  enliven  our  heath-clad  hills. 

The  "  Grassington  theatre,"  or  rather 
"  playhouse,"  for  it  never  received  a  loftier 
appellation,  where  (to  borrow  the  phraseolo- 
gy of  the  Coburg)  our  worthies  received  their 
"  nightly  acclamations  of  applause,"  has 
been  pulled  down,  but  I  will  endeavour  to 
describe  it.  It  was  an  old  limestone  "  lathe,' 
the  Craven  word  for  bavn,with  huge  folding- 
doors,  one  containing  a  smaller  one,  through 
which  the  audience  was  admitted  to  the  pit 


and  gallery,  for  there  were  no  boxes.  Yet 
on  particular  occasions,  such  as  when  the 
duke  of  Devonshire  or  earl  of  Thanet  good- 
naturedly  deigned  to  patronise  the  perform- 
ances, a  "  box"  was  fitted  up,  by  railing  off 
a  part  of  the  pit,  and  covering  it,  by  way 
of  distinction,  with  brown  paper,  painted 
to  represent  drapery.  The  prices  were, 
pit  sixpence,  and  gallery  threepence.  I  be- 
lieve they  had  no  half  price.  The  stage 
was  lighted  by  five  or  six  halfpenny  can- 
dles, and  the  decorations,  considering  the 
poverty  of  the  company,  were  tolerable. 
The  scenery  was  respectable ;  and  though 
sometimes,  by  sad  mishap,  the  sun  or  moon 
would  take  fire,  and  expose  the  tallow  can- 
dle behind  it,  was  very  well  managed — 
frequently  better  than  at  houses  of  loftier 
pretension.  The  dresses,  as  far  as  material 
went,  were  good ;  though  not  always  ia 
character.  An  outlaw  of  the  forest  of 
Arden  sometimes  appeared  in  the  guise  of 
a  Craven  waggoner,  and  the  holy  friar, 
"  whose  vesper  bell  is  the  bowl,  ding  dong," 
would  wear  a  bob  wig,  cocked  hat,  and  the 
surplice  of  a  modern  church  dignitary. 
These  slight  discrepancies  passed  unre- 
garded by  the  audience;  the  majority  did 
not  observe  them,  and  the  few  who  did 
were  silent;  there  were  no  prying  editor? 
to  criticise  and  report.  The  audience  was 
always  numerous,  (no  empty  benches  there) 
and  respectable  people  often  formed  a  por- 
tion. I  have  known  the  village  lawyer,  the 
parson  of  the  parish,  and  the  doctor  com- 
fortably seated  together,  laughing  heartily 
at  Tom  Airay  strutting  as  Lady  Randolph, 
his  huge  Yorkshire  clogs  peeping  from 
beneath  a  gown  too  short  to  conceal  his 
corduroy  breeches,  and  murdering  his  words 
in  a  manner  that  might  have  provoked 
Penning  and  Bailey  from  their  graves,  to 
break  the  manager's  head  with  their  weighty 
publications.  All  the  actors  had  a  bad 
pronunciation.  Cicero  was  called  Kikkero, 
(which,  by  the  by,  is"  probably  the  correct 
one ;)  Africa  was  called  Afryka,  fatigued 
was  fattygewed,  and  pageantry  was  always 
called  paggyantry.  Well  do  I  remember 
Airay  exclaiming,  "  What  pump,  what  pag- 
gyantry is  there  here !"  and,  on  another 
occasion,  saying,  "  Ye  damans  o1  deeth  come 
sattle  my  sicurd .'"  The  company  would 
have  spoken  better,  had  they  not,  on  meeting 
with  a  "  dictionary  word,"  applied  for  in- 
formation to  an  old  schoolmaster,  who  con. 
stantly  misled  them,  and  taught  them  to 
pronounce  in  the  most  barbarous  mode  he 
could  devise ;  yet  such  was  the  awe  where- 
with they  were  accustomed  to  regard  this 
dogmatical  personage,  and  the  profound 


73 


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74 


respect  they  paid  to  his  abilities,  that  they 
received  his  deceiving  tricks  with  thankful- 
ness. One  of  them  is  too  good  to  be 
omitted  :  Airay,  in  some  play  or  farce, 
happened  to  meet  with  this  stage  direction, 
"  they  sit  down  and  play  a  game  at  piquet ;" 
the  manager  did  not  understand  the  term 
"  piquet,"  and  the  whole  of  the  corps  dra- 
matique  were  equally  ignorant — as  a  dernier 
ressort,  application  was  made  to  their  old 
friend,  the  knight  of  the  birch,  who  in- 
structed them  that  "  piquet"  was  the  French 
word  for  pie-cut,  and  what  they  had  to  do 
was  to  make  a  large  pie,  and  sit  round  a 
table  and  eat  it ;  and  this,  on  the  perform- 
ance of  the  piece,  they  actually  did,  to  the 
great  amusement  of  the  few  who  were  ac- 
quainted with  the  joke.  When  Tom  was 
informed  of  the  trick,  he  wittily  denomi- 
nated it  a  substantial  one. 

The  plays  usually  performed  atGrassing- 
ton  were  of  the  regular  drama,  the  produc- 
tions of  Shakspeare,  Dryden,  Otway,  or 
Lillo.  George  Barnwell  has  many  a  time 
caused  the  Craven  maids  to  forget  "  Tur- 
pin,"  and  "  Nevison,"  and  bloody  squires, 
and  weep  at  the  shocking  catastrophe  of 
the  grocer's  apprentice.  Melodramas  were 
unknown  to  them,  and  happy  had  it  been 
for  the  dramatic  talent  of  this  country  if 
they  had  remained  unknown  elsewhere ; 
for  since  these  innovations,  mastiff  dogs, 
monkeys,  and  polichinellos  have  followed 
in  lapid  succession,  and  what  monstrum 
horrendum  will  next  be  introduced,  is  diffi- 
cult to  conceive.  We  may  say, 

"  Alas,  for  the  drama,  its  day  has  gone  by." 

At  the  time  of  Airay's  glory,  had  the 
word  melodrama  been  whispered  in  his  ear, 
he  would  probably  have  inquired  what  sort 
of  a  beast  it  was,  what  country  it  came 
from,  and  whether  one  was  in  the  tower  ? — 
Grassington  being  too  poor  to  support  a 
printer,  the  play-bills  were  written,  and  by 
way  of  making  the  performances  better 
known,  the  parish  bellman  was  daily  em- 
ployed to  cry  the  play  in  a  couplet  com- 
posed by  the  manager.  I  only  remember 
one. 

Guy  in  his  youth,  our  play  we  call, 
At  six  to  the  hay-mow*  hie  ye  all  I 

This  not  only  apprized  the  inhabitants  of 
the  play  for  the  evening,  but  frequently  the 
novelty  of  the  mode  induced  a  passing 
stranger  to  honour  the  house  with  his  pre- 


sence. It  was  also  preferable  to  printing, 
for  that  was  an  expense  the  proceeds  of  the 
house  could  not  afford. 

While  thus  hastily  sketching  the  pecu- 
liarities of  Airay  and  his  associates,  it 
would  be  unjust  not  to  state  in  conclusion, 
that  their  performances  were  always  of  a" 
moral  character;  if  any  indelicate  senti- 
ment or  expression  occurred  in  their  plays, 
it  was  omitted;  nothing  was  uttered  that 
could  raise  a  blush  on  the  female  cheek. 
Nor  were  the  audiences  less  moral  than  the 
manager  :  not  an  instance  can  be  recorded 
of  riot  or  indecency.  In  these  respects,  Tom 
Airay's  theatre  might  serve  as  a  model  to  the 
patent  houses  in  town,  wherein  it  is  to  be 
feared  the  original  intent  of  the  stage,  that 
.of  improving  the  mind  by  inculcating  morali- 
ty, is  perverted.  Whenever  Airay  takes  a  re- 
trospective glance  at  his  theatrical  manage- 
ment, he  can  do  it  with  pleasure ;  for  never 
did  he  pander  to  a  depraved  appetite,  or  ren- 
der his  barn  a  spot  wherein  the  vicious 
would  covet  to  congregate. 

T.  Q.  M. 


£fterarp 


"  THE  SYBIL'S  LEAVES,  or  a  Peep  into 
Futurity,  published  by  Ackermann,  Strand, 
and  Lupton  Relfe,  Cornhill,"  consist  of  sixty 
lithographic  verses  on  as  many  cards,in  a  case 
bearing  an  engraved  representation  of  a 
party  in  high  humour  consulting  the  cards. 
Thirty  of  them  are  designed  for  ladies, 
and  as  many  for  gentlemen  :  a  lady  is 
to  hold  the  gentleman's  pack,  and  vict 
versa.  From  these  packs,  each  lady  or 
gentleman  wishing  to  have  "  the  most  im- 
portant points  infallibly  predicted  "  is  to 
draw  a  card. 

The  idea  of  telling  fortunes  at  home  is 
very  pleasant  ;  and  the  variety  of  "  the  Sy- 
bil's Leaves"  assists  to  as  frequent  oppor- 
tunities of  re-consultation  as  the  most 
inveterate  craver  can  desire  A  lady  con- 
demned by  one  of  the  leaves  to  "  wither 
on  the  virgin  thorn,"  on  turning  over  a  new 
leaf  may  chance  to  be  assured  of  a  delightful 
reverse  ;  and  by  a  like  easy  process,  a 
"  disappointed  gentleman  "  become,  at 
last,  a  "  happy  man." 


•  In  Craven,  the  hay  is  not  stacked  as  in  the  south, 
but  housed  in  barns,  which  from  this  custom  are  called 
hay-mows. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


ancient  &iber  jflut  at  ClcrfcentoelJ. 


Lo  !  hither  Fleet-JrooA  came,  in  former  times  call'd  the  Fleet-riter, 
Which  navies  once  rode  on,  in  present  times  hidden-  for  erer, 
Save  where  water-cresses  and  sedge  mark  its  oozing  and  creeping, 
In  yonder  old  meadows,  from  whence  it  lags  slowly  —  as  weeping 
Its  present  misgivings,  and  obsolete  use,  and  renown  — 
And  bearing  its  burdens  of  shame  and  abuse  into  town, 
On  meeting  the  buildings  sinks  into  the  earth,  nor  aspires 
To  decent-eyed  people,  till  forced  to  the  Thames  at  Blackfri'rs. 


In  1825,  this  was  the  first  open  view 
nearest  London  of  the  ancient  River  Fleet: 
it  was  taken  during  the  building  of  the 
high-arched  walls  connected  with  the 
House  of  Correction,  Cold-bath-fields,  close 
to  which  prison  the  river  ran,  as  here  seen. 
At  that  time,  the  newly-erected  walls 
communicated  a  peculiarly  picturesque 
effect  to  the  stream  flowing  within 
their  confines.  It  arrived  thither  from 
Bagnigge-wells,  on  its  way  to  a  covered 
channel,  whereby  it  passes  between  Turn- 
mill-street,  and  again  emerging,  crosses 
Chick-lane,  now  called  West-street,  near 
Field-lane,  at  the  back  of  which  it  runs  on, 
and  continues  under  Holborn-bridge,  Fleet- 
market,  and  Bridge-street,  till  it  reaches 


the  Thames,  close  to  the  stairs  on  the  west 
side  of  Blackfriars-bridge.  The  bridge, 
whereby  boys  cross  the  stream  in  the 
engraving,  is  a  large  iron  pipe  for  convey- 
ing water  from  the  New  River  Company's 
works,  to  supply  the  houses  in  Grays- inn- 
lane.  A  few  years  ago,  the  New  River 
water  was  conducted  across  this  valley 
through  wooden  pipes.  Since  the  drawing 
was  made,  the  Fleet  has  been  diverted 
from  the  old  bed  represented  in  the  print, 
through  a  large  barrel  drain,  into  the  course 
just  mentioned,  near  Turnmill-street.  This 
notice  of  the  deviation,  and  especially  the 
last  appearance  of  the  river  in  its  immemo- 
rial channel,  may  be  of  interest,  because 
the  Fleet  is  the  only  ancient  stream  running 


77 


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into  London  which  is  not  yet  wholly  lost 
jo  sight. 

The  River  Fleet  at  its  source,  in  a  field 
on  the  London  .side  of  the  Hampstead 
ponds,  is  merely  a  sedgy  ditchling,  scarcely 
naif  a  step  across,  and  "  winds  its  sinuosi- 
ties along,"  with  little  increase  of  width 
or  depth,  to  the  road  from  the  Mother  Red 
Cap  to  Kentish  Town,  beneath  which  road 
it  passes  through  the  pastures  to  Camden 
Town ;  and  in  one  of  these  pastures,  the 
canal,  running  through  the  Tunnel  at  Pen 
tonville  to  the  City -road,  is  conveyed  over 
it  by  an  arch.  From  this  place  its  width 
increases,  till  it  reaches  towards  the  west 
side  of  the  road  leading  from  Pancras 
Workhouse  to  Kentish  Town.  In  the  rear 
of  the  houses  on  that  side  of  the  road,  it 
becomes  a  brook,  washing  the  edge  of  the 
garden  in  front  of  the  premises  late  the 
stereotype-foundery  and  printing-offices  of 
Mr.  Andrew  Wilson,  which  stand  back 
from  the  road  ;  and,  cascading  down  behind 
the  lower  road-side  houses,  it  reaches  the 
Elephant  and  Castle,  in  front  of  which  it 
tunnels  to  Battle-bridge,  and  there  levels 
out  to  the  eye,  and  runs  sluggishly  to  Bag- 
nigge-wells,  where  it  is  at  its  greatest 
width,  which  is  about  twelve  feet  across ; 
from  thence  it  narrows  to  the  House  of  Cor- 
rection, and  widens  again  near  Turnmill- 
street,  and  goes  to  the  Thames,  as  above 
described. 

In  a  parliament  held  at  Carlile,  in  35  Ed* 
ward  I.,  1 307,  Henry  Lacy  earl  of  Lincoln 
complained  that,  in  former  times,  the  course 
of  water  running  under  Holborn-bridge  and 
Fleet-bridge  into  the  Thames,  had  been  of 
such  breadth  and  depth  that  ten  or  twelve 
ships  at  once,  "  navies  with  merchandise," 
were  wont  to  come  to  Fleet-bridge,  and 
some  of  them  to  Holborn-bridge ;  yet  that, 
by  filth  of  the  tanners  and  others,  and  by 
raising  of  wharfs,  and  especially  by  a  diver- 
sion of  the  water  in  the  first  year  of  king 
John,  1200,  by  them  of  the  New  Temple, 
for  their  mills  without  Baynard's  Castle, 
and  by  other  impediments,  the  course  was 
decayed,  and  ships  could  not  enter  as  they 
were  used.  On  the  prayer  of  the  earl,  the 
constable  of  the  Tower,  with  the  mayor  and 
sheriffs  of  London,  were  directed  to  take 
with  them  honest  and  discreet  men  to  in- 
quire into  the  former  state  of  the  river, 
to  leave  nothing  that  might  hurt  or  stop  it, 
and  to  restore  it  to  its  wonted  condition. 
Upon  this,  the  river  was  cleansed,  the  mills 
were  removed,  and  other  means  taken  for 
the  preservation  of  the  course ;  but  it  was 
not  brought  to  its  old  depth  and  breadth, 
•*nd  therefore  it  was  no  longer  termed  a 


river,  but  a  brook,  called  Turne-mill  or 
Tremill  Brook,  because  mills  were  erected 
on  it. 

After  this,  it  was  cJeansed  several  times ; 
and  particularly  in  1502,  the  whole  course 
of  Fleet  Dike,  as  it  was  then  called,  was 
scoured  down  to  the  Thames,  so  that 
boats  with  fish  and  fuel  were  rowed  to 
Fleet-bridge  and  Holborn-bridge. 

In  1589,  by  authority  of  the  common 
council  of  London,  a  thousand  marks  were 
collected  to  draw  several  of  the  springs  at 
Hampstead-heath  into  one  head,  for  the 
service  of  the  City  with  fresh  water  where 
wanted,  and  in  order  that  by  such  "  a  fol- 
lower," as  it  was  termed,  the  channel  of 
the  brook  should  be  scoured  into  the 
Thames.  After  much  money  spent,  the 
effect  was  not  obtained,  and  in  Stow's  time, 
by  means  of  continual  encroachments  on 
the  banks,  and  the  throwing  of  soil  into  the 
stream,  it  became  worse  clogged  than 
ever.* 

After  the  Fire  of  London,  the  channel 
was  made  navigable  for  barges  to  come  up, 
by  the  assistance  of  the  tide  from  the 
Thames,  as  far  as  Holborn-bridge,  where 
the  Fleet,  otherwise  Turnmill-brook,  fell 
into  this,  the  wider  channel ;  which  had 
sides  built  of  stone  and  brick,  with  ware- 
houses  on  each  side,  running  under  the 
street,  and  used  for  the  laying  in  of  coals, 
and  other  commodities.  This  channel  had 
five  feet  water,  at  the  lowest  tide,  at  Hol- 
born-bridge, the  wharfs  on  each  side  the 
channel  were  thirty  feet  broad,  and  rails  of 
oak  were  placed  along  the  sides  of  the 
ditch  to  prevent  people  from  falling  into  it 
at  night.  There  were  four  bridges  of  Port- 
land stone  over  it ;  namely,  at  Bridewell, 
Fleet-street,  Fleet-lane,  and  Holborn. 

When  the  citizens  proposed  to  erect  a 
mansion-house  for  their  lord  mayor,  they 
fixed  on  Stocks-market,  where  the  Man- 
sion-house now  stands,  for  its  site,  and 
proposed  to  arch  the  Fleet-ditch,  from 
Holborn  to  Fleet-street,  and  to  remove  that 
market  to  the  ground  they  would  gain  by 
that  measure.  In  1733,  therefore,  they  re- 
presented to  the  House  of  Commons,  that 
although  after  the  Fire  of  London  the  chan- 
nel of  the  Fleet  had  been  made  navigable 
from  the  Thames  to  Holborn-bridge,  yet 
the  profits  from  the  navigation  had  not  an- 
swered the  charge  ;  that  the  part  from 
Fleet-bridge  to  Holborn-bridge,  instead  o\ 
being  useful  to  trade,  had  become  choked 
with  mud,  and  was  therefore  a  nuisance, 
and  that  several  persons  had  lost  their  lives 

•  Stow's  Survey. 


79 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


80 


by  falling  into  it.  For  these  and  other 
causes  assigned,  an  act  passed,  vesting  the 
fee  simple  of  the  site  referred  to  in  the 
corporation  for  ever,  on  condition  that 
drains  should  be  made  through  the  channel, 
and  that  no  buildings  on  it  should  exceed 
fifteen  feet  in  height.  The  ditch  was  ac- 
cordingly arched  over  from  Holborn  to 
Fleet-bridge,  where  the  present  obelisk  in 
Bridge-street  now  stands,  and  Fleet-market 
was  erected  on  the  arched  ground,  and 
opened  with  the  business  of  Stocks-market, 
on  the  30th  of  September,  1737. 

In  1765,  the  building  of  Blackfriars- 
bridge  rendered  it  requisite  to  arch  over  the 
remainder,  from  Fleet-bridge  to  the  Thames; 
yet  a  small  part  remained  an  open  dock 
ifor  a  considerable  time,  owing  U>  the  obsti- 
nate persistence  of  a  private  proprietor.* 

Previous  to  the  first  arching  of  the  Fleet, 
Pope,  in  "  The  Dunciad,"  imagined  the 
votaries  of  Dulness  diving  and  sporting  in 
Fleet-ditch,  which  he  then  called 

The  king  of  dykes  !  than  whom  no  sluice  of  mud 
With  deeper  sable  blots  the  silver  flood. 

"  I  recollect,"  says  Pennant,  "  the  present 
noble  approach  to  Blackfriars-bridge,  the 
well-built  opening  of  Chatham-place,  a 
muddy  and  genuine  ditch."  It  has  of  late 
been  rendered  a  convenient  and  capacious 
sewer. 

During  the  digging  of  Fleet-ditch,  in 
1676,  with  a  view  to  its  improvement  after 
the  Fire  of  London,  between  the  Fleet- 
prison  and  Holborn-bridge,  at  the  depth  of 
fifteen  feet,  several  Roman  utensils  were 
discovered  ;  and,  a  little  lower,  a  great 
quantity  of  Roman  coins,  of  silver,  copper, 
brass,  and  various  other  metals,  but  none 
of  gold  ;  and  at  Holborn-bridge,  two  brass 
lares,  or  household  gods,  of  the  Romans, 
about  four  inches  in  length,  were  dug  out ; 
one  a  Ceres,  and  the  other  a  Bacchus.  The 
great  quantity  of  coins,  induces  a  presump- 
tion that  they  were  thrown  into  this  river 
by  the  Roman  inhabitants  of  the  city,  on 
the  entry  of  Boadicea,  with  hei  army  of  en- 
raged Britons,  who  slaughtered  their  con- 
querors, without  distinction  of  age  or  sex. 
Here  also  were  found  arrow-heads,  spur- 
rowels  of  a  hand's  breadth,  keys,  daggers, 
scales,  seals  with  the  proprietors'  names  in 
Saxon  characters,  ship  counters  with  Saxon 
characters,  and  a  considerable  number  of 
medals,  crosses,  and  crucifixes,  of  a  more 
recent  age.f 


Sometime  before  the  year  1714,  Mr. 
John  Conyers,  an  apothecary  in  Fleet- 
street,  who  made  it  his  chief  business  to 
collect  antiquities,  which  about  that  time 
were  daily  found  in  and  about  London,  as 
he  was  digging  in  a  field  near  the  Fleet 
not  far  from  Battle-bridge,  discovered  the 
body  of  an  elephant,  conjectured  to  have 
been  killed  there,  by  the  Britons,  in  fight 
with  the  Romans ;  for,  not  far  from  the 
spot,  was  found  an  ancient  British  spear, 
the  head  of  flint  fastened  into  a  shaft  of 
good  length.*  From  this  elephant,  the 
public-house  near  the  spot  where  it  was 
discovered,  called  the  Elephant  and  Castle, 
derives  its  sign. 

There  are  no  memorials  of  the  extent  to 
which  the  river  Fleet  was  anciently  naviga- 
ble, though,  according  to  tradition,  an 
anchor  was  found  in  it  as  high  up  as  the 
Elephant  and  Castle,  which  is  immediately 
opposite  Pancras  workhouse,  and  at  the 
corner  of  the  road  leading  from  thence  to 
Kentish-town.  Until  within  these  few 
years,  it  gave  motion  to  flour  and  flatting 
mills  at  the  back  of  Field-lane,  near  Hol- 
born .t 

That  the  Fleet  was  once  a  very  service- 
able stream  there  can  be  no  doubt,  from 
what  Stow  relates.  The  level  of  the  ground 
is  favourable  to  the  presumption,  that  its 
current  widened  and  deepened  for  naviga- 
ble purposes  to  a  considerable  extent  in 
the  valley  between  the  Bagnigge-wells- 
road  and  Gray's-inn,  and  that  it  might  have 
had  accessions  to  its  waters  from  other 
sources,  besides  that  in  the  vicinity  of 
Hampstead.  Stow  speaks  of  it  under  the 
name  of  the  "  River  of  Wels,  in  the  west 
part  of  the  citie,  and  of  old  so  called  of  the 
Wels  ;"  and  he  tells  of  its  running  from 
the  moor  near  the  north  corner  of  the  wall 
of  Cripplegate  postern.  This  assertion, 
which  relates  to  the  reign  of  William  the 
Conqueror,  is  controverted  by  Maitland, 
who  imagines  "  great  inattention  "  on  the 
part  of  the  old  chronicler.  It  is  rather  to 
be  apprehended,  that  Maitland  was  less  an 
antiquary  than  an  inconsiderate  compiler. 
The  drainage  of  the  city  has  effaced  proofs 
of  many  appearances  which  Stow  relates 
as  existing  in  his  own  time,  but  which  there 
is  abundant  testimony  of  a  different  nature 
to  corroborate ;  and,  notwithstanding  Mail- 
land's  objection,  there  is  sufficient  reason  to 
apprehend  that  the  river  of  Wells  and  the 
Fleet  river  united  and  flowed,  in  the  same 
channel,  to  the  Thames. 


*  Noorthouck. 
t  Maitiand.     Pennant. 


•  Letter  from  Bagford  to  Hearne. 
*  Nelson's  History  of  Islington. 


81 


THE  TABLE  BOOK- 


January* 

If  you  are  ill  at  this  season,  there  is  no 
occasion  to  send  for  the  doctor — only  stop 
eating.  Indeed,  upon  general  principles, 
it  seems  to  me  to  be  a  mistake  for  people, 
every  time  there  is  any  little  thing  the  mat- 
ter with  them,  to  be  running  in  such  haste 
for  the  "  doctor  ;"  because,  if  you  are  going 
to  die,  a  doctor  can't  help  you  ;  and  if  you 
are  not — there  is  no  occasion  for  him.* 


ANGLING  IN  JANUARY. 

Dark  is  the  ever-flowing  stream. 

And  snow  falls  on  the  lake ; 
For  now  the  nt>ontide  sunny  beam 

Scarce  pierces  bower  and  brake ; 
And  flood,  or  envious  frost,  destroys 
A  portion  of  the  angler's  joys. 

Yet  still  we'll  talk  of  sjiorts  gone  by, 

Of  triumphs  we  have  won, 
Of  waters  we  again  shall  try, 

When  sparkling  in  the  sun  ; 
Of  favourite  haunts,  by  mead  or  dell, 
Haunts  which  the  fisher  loves  so  well. 

Of  stately  Thames,  of  gentle  Lea, 

The  merry  monarch's  seat; 
Of  Ditton's  stream,  of  Avon's  brae. 

Or  Mitcham's  mild  retreat ; 
Of  waters  by  the  meer  or  mill, 
And  all  that  tries  the  angler's  skill. 

Annals  of  Sporting. 


PLOUGH  MONDAY. 

The  first  Monday  after  Twelfth-day  is  so 
denominated,  and  it  is  the  ploughman's 
holyday. 

Of  late  years  at  this  season,  in  the 
islands  of  Scilly,  the  young  people  exercise  a 
sort  of  gallantry  called  "goose-dancing." 
The  maidens  are  dressed  up  for  young 
men,  and  the  young  men  for  maidens; 
and,  thus  disguised,  they  visit  their  neigh- 
bours in  companies,  where  they  dance,  and 
make  jokes  upon  what  has  happened  in  the 
island ;  and  every  one  is  humorously 
"  told  their  own,"  without  offence  being 
taken.  By  this  sort  of  sport,  according  to 
yearly  custom  and  toleration,  there  is  a 
spirit  of  wit  and  drollery  kept  up  among 
the  people.  The  music  and  dancing  done, 
they  are  treated  with  liquor,  and  then  they 
go  to  the  next  house  of  entertainment.^ 


Monthly  Magazine,  January,  1827. 
t  Strutt's  Sports,  307- 


WILLY-HOWE,  YORKSHIRE. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

There  is  an  artificial  mount,  by  the  side 
of  the  road  leading  from  North  Burton  tc 
Wold  Newton,  near  Bridlington,  in  York- 
shire, called  "  Willy-howe,"  much  exceed- 
ing in  size  the  generality  of  our  "  hows." 
of  which  I  have  often  heard  the  most  pre- 
posterous stories  related.  A  cavity  or  divi- 
sion on  the  summit  is  pointed  out  as  owing 
its  origin  to  the  following  circumstance  : — 

A  person  having  intimation  of  a  large 
chest  of  gold  being  buried  therein,  dug 
away  the  earth  until  it  appeared  in  sight ; 
he  then  had  a  train  of  horses,  extending 
upwards  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  attached  to 
it  by  strong  iron  traces ;  by  these  means  he 
was  just  on  the  point  of  accomplishing  his 
purpose,  when  he  exclaimed — 

"  Hop  Perry,  prow  Mark, 

Whether  God's  will  or  not,  we'll  have  this  ark." 

He,  however,  had  no  sooner  pronounced 
this  awful  blasphemy,  than  all  the  traces 
broke,  and  the  chest  sunk  still  deeper  in  the 
hill,  where  it  yet  remains,  all  his  future 
efforts  to  obtain  it  being  in  vain. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  neighbourhood 
also  speak  of  the  place  being  peopled  with 
fairies,  and  tell  of  the  many  extraordinary 
feats  which  this  diminutive  race  has  per- 
formed. A  fairy  once  told  a  man,  to  whom 
it  appears  she  was  particularly  attached,  it 
he  went  to  the  top  of  "  Willy-howe  "  every 
morning,  he  would  find  a  guinea ;  this 
information,  however,  was  given  under  the 
injunction  that  he  should  not  make  the  cir- 
cumstance known  to  any  other  person. 
For  some  time  he  continued  his  visit,  and 
always  successfully ;  but  at  length,  like  our 
first  parents,  he  broke  the  great  command- 
ment, and,  by  taking  with  him  another 
person,  not  merely  suffered  the  loss  of  the 
usual  guinea,  but  met  with  a  severe  punish- 
ment from  the  fairies  for  his  presumption. 
Many  more  are  the  tales  which  abound 
here,  and  which  almost  seem  to  have  made 
this  a  consecrated  spot  ;  but  how  they 
could  at  first  originate, is  somewhat  singular. 

That  "  Hows,"  "  Carnedds,"  and  "  Bar- 
rows," are  sepulchral,  we  can  scarcely  en- 
tertain a  doubt,  since  in  all  that  have  been 
examined,  human  bones,  rings,  and  other 
remains  have  been  discovered.  From  the 
coins  and  urns  found  in  some  of  them,  they 
have  been  supposed  the  burial-places  of 
Roman  generals.  "  But  as  hydrotaphia, 
or  urn-burial,  was  the  custom  among  the 
Romans,  and  interment  the  practice  of  the 


83 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


84 


Britons,  it  is  reasonable  to  conjecture, 
where  such  insignia  are  discovered,  the 
tumuli  are  the  sepulchres  of  some  British 
chieftains,  who  fell  in  the  Roman  service.' 
The  size  of  each  tumulus  was  in  proportion 
to  the  rank  and  respect  of  the  deceased  ; 
and  the  labour  requisite  to  its  formation 
was  considerably  lessened  by  the  number 
employed,  each  inferior  soldier  being 
obliged  to  contribute  a  ceitain  quantum  to 
the  general  heap.  That  the  one  of  which 
we  are  speaking  is  the  resting-place  of  a 
great  personage  may  be  easily  inferred, 
from  its  magnitude  ;  its  name  also  indi- 
cates the  same  thing,  "  WILLY-HOWE," 
being  the  hill  of  many,  or  the  hill  made  by 
many :  for  in  Gibson's  Camden  we  find 
"  Willy  and  Vili  among  the  English 
Saxons,  as  Viele  at  this  day  among  the 
Germans,  signified  many.  So  Willielmus, 
the  defender  of  many.  Wilfred,  peace  to 
many."  Supposing  then  a  distinguished 
British  chieftain,  who  fell  in  the  imperial 
service,  to  have  been  here  interred,  we  may 
readily  imagine  that  the  Romans  and 
Britons  would  endeavour  to  stimulate  their 
own  party  by  making  his  merits  appear  as 
conspicuous  as  possible ;  and  to  impress 
an  awe  and  a  dread  on  the  feelings  of  their 
enemies,  they  would  not  hesitate  to  prac- 
tise what  we  may  call  a  pardonable  fraud, 
in  a  pretension  that  the  fairies  were  his 
friends,  and  continued  to  work  miracles  at 
his  tomb.  At  the  first  glance,  this  idea 
may  seem  to  require  a  stretch  of  fancy,  but 
we  can  more  readily  reconcile  it  when  we 
consider  how  firm  was  the  belief  that  was 
placed  in  miracles  ;  how  prevalent  the  love 
that  existed,  in  those  dark  ages  of  igno- 
rance and  superstition,  to  whatever  bore 
that  character ;  and  how  ready  the  Romans, 
with  their  superior  sagacity,  would  be  to 
avail  themselves  of  it.  The  Saxons,  when 
they  became  possessed  of  the  country, 
would  hear  many  strange  tales,  which  a 
species  of  bigoted  or  unaccountable  attach- 
ment to  the  marvellous  would  cause  to  be 
handed  down  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, each  magnifying  the  first  wonder, 
until  they  reached  the  climax,  whence  they 
are  now  so  fast  descending.  Thus  may 
probably  have  arisen  the  principal  feature 
in  the  history  of  their  origin. 

This  mode  of  sepultuie  appears  to  be 
very  ancient,  and  that  it  was  very  general 
.s  sufficiently  demonstrated  by  the  hills  yet 
remaining  in  distant  parts  of  the  world. 
Dr.  Clarke,  who  noticed  their  existence  in 
Siberia  and  Russian-Tartary,  thinks  the 
practice  is  alluded  to  in  the  Old  Testament 
in  these  passages  :  "  They  raised  a  great 


heap  of  stones  on  Achan ;"  "  and  raised 
a  great  heap  of  stones  on  the  king  of  Ai ;" 
"  they  laid  a  heap  of  stones  on  Absalom." 
In  the  interior  of  South  Africa,  the  Rev. 
J.  Campbell  "  found  a  large  heap  of  small 
stones,  which  had  been  raised  by  each  pas- 
senger adding  a  stone  to  the  heap  ;  it  was 
intended  as  a  monument  of  respect  to  the 
memory  of  a  king,  from  a  remote  nation, 
who  was  killed  in  the  vicinity,  and  whose 
head  and  hands  were  interred  in  that 
spot." 

The  number  of  these  mounds  in  our  own 
country  is  very  considerable  ;  and  I  trust 
they  will  remain  the  everlasting  monu- 
ments of  their  own  existence.  Their  greatest 
enemy  is  an  idle  curiosity,  that  cannot  be 
satisfied  with  what  antiquaries  relate  con- 
cerning such  as  have  been  examined,  but, 
with  a  vain  arrogance,  assumes  the  power 
of  digging  though  them  at  pleasure.  For 
my  own  part,  I  must  confess,  I  should  like 
to  be  a  witness  of  what  they  contain,  yet  I 
would  hold  them  sacred,  so  far  as  not  to 
have  them  touched  with  the  rude  hand  of 
Ignorance.  Whenever  I  approach  these 
venerable  relics,  my  mind  is  carried  back 
to  the  time  when  they  were  young ;  since 
then,  I  consider  what  years  have  rolled 
over  years,  what  generations  hare  followed 
generation*,  and  feel  an  interest  peculiarly 
and  delicately  solemn,  in  the  fate  of  those 
whose  dust  is  here  mingled  with  its  kin- 
dred dust. 

T.  C. 

Bridlington. 


HORN  CHURCH  IN  ESSEX. 
For  the  Table  Booh. 

In  reply  to  the  inquiry  by  Ignotus,  in  the 
Every-Day  Book,  vol.  ii.  p.  1650,  respect- 
ing the  origin  of  affixing  horns  to  a  church 
in  Essex,  I  find  much  ambiguity  on  the 
subject,  and  beg  leave  to  refer  to  that  ex- 
cellent work,  "  Newcourt's  Repertorium," 
vol.  ii.  p.  336,  who  observes,  on  the  au- 
thority of  Weaver,  "  The  inhabitants  here 
say,  by  tradition,  that  this  church,  dedicated 
to  St.  Andrew,  was  built  by  a  female  con- 
vert, to  expiate  for  her  former  sins,  and  that 
it  was  called  Hore-church  at.  first,  till  by  a 
certain  king,  but  by  whom  they  are  uncer- 
tain, who  rode  that  way,  it  was  called 
Horned-church,  who  caused  those  horns  to 
be  put  out  at  the  east  end  of  it." 

The  vane,  on  the  top  of  the  spire,  is  also 
in  the  form  of  an  ox's  head,  with  the  horns. 
"  The  hospital  had  neither  college  nor  com- 
mon seal." 


85 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


Customs. 

THE  PRESENT  BOAR'S  HEAD  CAROL. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

Mr.  Editor, — In  reading  your  account  of 
the  "  Boar's  Head  Carol,"  in  your  Even/- 
Day Booh,  vol.  i.  p.  1619,  I  find  the  old 
carol,  but  not  the  words  of  the  carol  as 
sung  at  present  in  Queen's  College,  Ox- 
ford, on  Christmas-day.  As  I  think  it  pos- 
sible you  may  never  have  seen  them,  I 
now  send  you  a  copy  as  they  were  sung, 
or,  more  properly,  chanted,  in  the  hall  of 
Queen's,  on  Christmas-day,  1810,  at  which 
time  I  was  a  member  of  the  college,  and 
assisted  at  the  chant. 

A  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary ; 
And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  merry, 
Quot  estis  in  convivio.— 

Caput  apri  defero, 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 

The  boar's  head,  as  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land; 
And  when  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland 
Jjtit  us  servire  cantico. — 
Caput  apri,  &c. 

Our  steward  hath  provided  this, 
In  honour  of  the  King  of  bliss : 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
In  reginensi  atrio. — 
Caput  apri,  &c. 

I  am,  &c. 

A  QUONDAM  QUEENSMAN. 


BEATING  THE  LAPSTONE. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

There  is  a  custom  of  "  beating  the  lap- 
stone,"  the  day  after  Christmas,  at  Nett.e 
ton,  near  Burton.  The  shoemakers  beat 
the  lapstone  at  the  houses  of  aiJ  water- 
drinkers,  in  consequence  of  a  neighbour, 
Thomas  Stickler,  who  had  not  tasted  malt 
liquor  for  twenty  years,  having  been  made 
tipsy  by  drinking  only  a  half  pint  of  ale 
at  his  shoemaker's,  at  Christmas.  When  he 
got  home,  he  tottered  into  his  house,  and 
his  good  dame  said,  "  John,  where  have 
you  been  ? — why,  you  are  in  liquor  ?" — 
"  No,  I  am  not,''  hiccnped  John,  "  I've 
only  fell  over  the  lapstone,  and  that  has 
beaten  my  leg,  so  as  I  can't  walk  quite 
right."  Hence  the  annual  practical  joke — 
"  beating  the  lapstone." 

P. 


GAMBLING-HOUSES  A  CENTURY  AGO. 
From  "  The  London  Mercury  "  of  January  13,  1721-2. 

There  are,  it  seems,  in  the  parish  of 
Covent-garden,  twenty-two  such  houses, 
some  of  which  clear  sometimes  1001.,  and 
seldom  less  than  401.  a  night.  They  have 
their  proper  officers,  both  civil  and  military, 
with  salaries  proportionable  to  their  respec- 
tive degrees,  and  the  importance  they  are 
of  in  the  service,  viz. 

A  commissioner,  or  commis,  who  is  al- 
ways a  proprietor  of  the  gaming-house :  he 
looks  in  once  a  night,  and  the  week's  ac- 
count is  audited  by  him  and  two  others  of 
the  proprietors. 

A  director,  who  superintends  the  room. 
The  operator,  the  dealer  at  faro. 
Croupees  two,  who  watch  the  card,  and 
gather  the  money  for  the  bank. 

A  puff,  one  who  has  money  given  him 
to  play,  in  order  to  decoy  others. 

A  clerk,  who  is  a  check  upon  the  puff,  to 
see  that  he  sinks  none  of  that  money. — A 
squib  is  a  puff  of  a  lower  rank,  and  has  halt 
the  salary  of  a  puff. 

A  flasher,  one  who  sits  by  to  swear  how 
often  he  has  seen  the  bank  stript. 
A  dunner,  waiters. 
An  attorney,  or  solicitor. 
A  captain,  one  who  is  to  fight  any  man 
that  is  peevish  or  out  of  humour  at  the  loss 
of  his  money. 

An  usher,  who  takes  care  that  the  porter, 
or  grenadier  at  the  door,  suffers  none  to  come 
in  but  those  he  knows. 

A  porter,  who,  at  most  of  the  gaming- 
ouses,  is  a  soldier  hired  for  that  purpose. 

A  runner,  to  get  intelligence  of  all  the 
meetings  of  the  justices  of  the  peace,  and 
when  the  constables  go  upon  the  search. 

Any  link-boy,  coachman,  chairman, 
drawer,  or  other  person,  who  gives  notice 
of  the  constables  being  upon  the  search, 
has  half  a  guinea. 


TASTE. 

Taste  is  the  discriminating  talisman,  en- 
abling its  owner  to  see  at  once  the  real 
merits  of  persons  and  tnings,  to  ascertain 
at  a  glance  the  true  from  the  false,  and  to 
decide  rightly  on  the  value  of  individuals. 

Nothing  escapes  him  who  walks  the  world 
with  his  eyes  touched  by  this  ointment; 
they  are  open  to  all  around  him — to  admire, 


87 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


88 


or  to  condemn — to  gaze  with  rapture,  or  to 
turn  away  with  disgust,  where  another  shall 
pass  and  see  nothing  to  excite  the  slightest 
emotion.  The  fair  creation  of  nature,  and 
the  works  of  man  afford  him  a  wide  field  of 
continual  gratification.  The  brook,  brawl- 
ing over  its  bed  of  rocks  or  pebbles,  half 
concealed  by  the  overhanging  bushes  that 
fringe  its  banks — or  the  great  river  flowing, 
in  unperturbed  majesty,  through  awide  vale 
of  peace  and  plenty,  or  forcing  its  passage 
through  a  lofty  range  of  opposing  hills — 
the  gentle  knoll,  and  the  towering  moun- 
tain— the  rocky  dell,  and  the  awful  preci- 
pice— the  young  plantation,  and  the  vene- 
rable forest,  are  alike  to  him  objects  of 
interest  and  of  admiration. 

So  in  the  works  of  m'an,  a  foot-bridge, 
thrown  across  a  torrent,  may  be  in  it  as 
gratifying  to  the  man  of  taste  as  the  finest 
arch,  or  most  wonderful  chain-bridge  in 
the  world  ;  and  a  cottage  of  the  humblest 
order  may  be  so  beautifully  situated,  so 
neatly  kept,  and  so  tastefully  adorned 
with  woodbine  and  jessamine,  as  to  call 
forth  his  admiration  equally  with  the 
princely  residence  of  the  British  landholder, 
in  all  its  pride  of  position,  and  splendour 
of  architecture. 

In  short,  this  faculty  is  applicable  to 
every  object ;  and  he  who  finds  any  thing 
too  lofty  or  too  humble  for  his  admiration, 
does  not  possess  it.  It  is  exercised  in  the 
every-day  affairs  of  life  as  much  as  in  the 
higher  arts  and  sciences. — Monthly  Maga- 
zine. 


Two  RAVENS,  ABROAD. 

On  the  quay  at  Nimeguen,  in  the  United 
Provinces,  two  ravens  are  kept  at  the  pub- 
lic expense ;  they  live  in  a  roomy  apart- 
ment, with  a  large  wooden  cage  before  it, 
which  serves  them  for  a  balcony.  These 
birds  are  feasted  every  day  with  the  choic- 
est fowls,  with  as  much  exactness  as  if  they 
were  for  a  gentleman's  table.  The  privi- 
leges of  the  city  were  granted  originally 
upon  the  observance  of  this  strange  custom, 
which  is  continued  to  this  day. 


Two  RAVENS,  AT  HOME. 

In  a  MS.  of  the  late  Rev.  Mr.  Gough, 
of  Shrewsbury,  it  is  related,  that  one  Tho- 
mas Elkes,  of  Middle,  in  Shropshire,  being 
guardian  to  his  eldest  brother's  child,  who 
was  young,  and  stood  in  his  way  to  a  con- 
siderable estate,  hired  a  poor  boy  to  entice 
him  into  a  corn  field  to  gather  flowers,  and 


meeting  them,  sent  the  poor  boy  home, 
took  his  nephew  in  his  arms,  and  carried 
him  to  a  pond  at  the  other  end  of  the  field, 
into  which  he  put  the  child,  and  there  left 
him.  The  child  being  missed,  and  inquiry 
made  after  him,  Elkes  fled,  and  took  fhe 
road  to  London ;  the  neighbours  sent  two 
horsemen  in  pursuit  of  him,  who  passing 
along  the  road  near  South  Mims,  in  Hert- 
fordshire, saw  two  ravens  sitting  on  a  cock 
of  hay  making  an  unusual  noise,  and  pull- 
ing the  hay  about  wkh  their  beaks,  on 
which  they  went  to  the  place,  and  found 
Elkes  asleep  under  the  hay.  He  said,  that 
these  two  ravens  had  followed  him  from 
the  time  he  did  the  fact.  He  was  brought 
to  Shrewsbury,  tried,  condemned,  and  hung 
in  chains  on  Knockinheath. 


THE  LAST  TREE  OF  THE  FOREST. 

Whisper,  thou  tree,  thou  lonely  tree, 

One,  wheie  a  thousand  stood! 
Well  might  proud  tales  be  told  by  thee. 

Last  of  the  solemn  wood  ! 

Dwells  there  no  voice  amidst  thy  boughs, 

With  leaves  yet  darkly  green? 
Stillness  is  round,  and  noon  tide  glows — 

Tell  us  what  thou  hast  seen! 

"  I  have  seen  the  forest-shadows  he 

Where  now  men  reap  the  corn ; 
I  have  seen  the  kingly  chase  rush  by, 

Through  the  deep  glades  at  morn. 

"  With  the  glance  of  many  a  gallant  spear 

And  the  wave  of  many  a  plume, 
And  the  bounding  of  a  hundred  deer 

It  hath  lit  the  woodland's  gloom. 

"  I  have  seen  the  knight  and  his  train  ride  past. 

With  his  banner  borne  on  high  ; 
O'er  all  my  leaves  there  was  brightness  cast 

From  his  gleamy  panoply. 

"  The  pilgrim  at  my  feet  hath  laid 
His  palm-branch  "midst  the  flowers, 

And  told  his  beads,  and  meekly  pray'd, 
Kneeling  at  vesper-hours. 

"  And  the  merry  men  of  wild  and  glen, 

In  the  green  array  they  wore, 
Have  feasted  here  with  the  red  wine's  cheer, 

And  the  hunter-songs  of  yore. 

"  And  the  minstrel,  resting  in  my  shade. 

Hath  made  the  forest  ring 
With  the  lordly  tales  of  the  high  crusade. 

Once  loved  by  chief  and  king. 

"  But  now  the  noble  forms  are  gone, 

That  walk'd  the  earth  of  old; 
The  soft  wind  hath  a  moRrufu'j  tone. 

The  sunny  light  looks  i  old. 


89 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


•*  There  is  no  glory  left  us  now 

tike  the  glory  with  the  dead  :— 
I  would  that  where  they  slumber  low, 

My  latest  leaves  were  shed." 

Oh  !  thou  dark  tree,  thou  lonely  tree, 

That  mournest  for  the  past  I 
A  peasant's  home  in  thy  shade  I  see, 

Embower'd  from  every  blast. 

A  lovely  and  a  mirthful  sound 

Of  laughter  meets  mine  ear  ; 
For  the  poor  man's  children  sport  around 

On  the  turf,  with  nought  tc  feav. 

And  roses  lend  that  cabin's  wall 

A  happy  summer-glow, 
And  the  open  door  stands  free  to  all, 

For  it  recks  tot  of  a  foe. 

And  the  village-bells  are  on  the  breeze 

That  stirs  thy  leaf,  dark  tree ! — 
— How  can  I  mourn,  amidst  things  like  these, 

For  the  stormy  past  with  thee  ? 

F  H.    New  Monthly  Magazine. 


Miss  POLLY  BAKER. 

Towards  the  end  of  1777,  the  abbe"  Raynal 
calling  on  Dr.  Franklin  found,  in  company 
with  the  doctor,  their  common  friend,  Silas 
Deane.  "  Ah !  monsieur  1'abbe,"  said 
Deane,  "  we  were  just  talking  of  you  and 
your  works.  Do  you  know  that  you  have 
been  very  ill  served  by  some  of  those  people 
who  have  undertaken  to  give  you  informa- 
tion on  American  affairs?"  The  abbe  re- 
sisted this  attack  with  some  warmth ;  and 
Deane  supported  it  by  citing  a  variety  of 
passages  from  Raynal's  works,  which  he 
alleged  to  be  incorrect.  At  last  they  came 
to  the  anecdote  of  "  Polly  Baker,"  on  which 
the  abbe  had  displayed  a  great  deal  of 
pathos  and  sentiment.  "  Now  here,"  says 
Deane,  "  is  a  tale  in  which  there  is  not  one 
word  of  truth."  Raynal  fired  at  this,  and 
asserted  that  he  had  taken  it  from  an  au- 
thentic memoir  received  from  America. 
Franklin,  who  had  amused  himself  hitherto 
with  listening  to  the  dispute  of  his  friends, 
at  length  interposed,  "  My  dear  abbe," 
said  he,  "  shall  I  tell  you  the  truth  ?  When 
I  was  a  young  man,  and  rather  more 
thoughtless  than  is  becoming  at  our  present 
time  of  life,  I  was  employed  in  writing  for 
a  newspaper;  and,  as  it  sometimes  hap- 
pened that  I  wanted  genuine  materials  to 
fill  up  my  page,  I  occasionally  drew  on  the 
stores  of  my  imagination  for  a  tale  which 
might  pass  current  as  a  reality -"-now  this 
very  anecdote  of  Polly  Baker  was  one  of 
my  inventions/' 


BREAD  SEALS. 

The  new  conundrum  of  "  breaa  pats,1* 
as  the  ladies  call  the  epigrammatic  im 
impressors  that  their  work-boxes  are  always 
full  of  now,  pleases  me  mightily.  Nothing 
could  be  more  stupid  than  the  old  style  of 
affiche — an  initial — carefully  engraved  in  a 
hand  always  perfectly  unintelligible;  or  a 
crest — necessarily  out  of  its  place,  nine 
times  in  ten,  in  female  correspondence — 
because  nothing  could  be  more  un-"  ger- 
mane "  than  a  "  bloody  dagger  "  alarm- 
ing every  body  it  met,  on  the  outside  of 
an  order  for  minikin  pins  !  or  a  "  fiery 
dragon,"  threatening  a  French  mantua- 
maker  for  some  undue  degree  of  tightness 
in  the  fitting  of  the  sleeve !  and  then  the 
same  emblem,  recurring  through  the  whole 
letter-writing  of  a  life,  became  tedious.  Buf 
now  every  lady  has  a  selection  of  axioms 
(in  flower  and  water)  always  by  her,  suit 
ed  to  different  occasions.  As,  "Though 
lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear  !" — when 
she  writes  to  a  friend  who  has  lately  had 
his  eye  poked  out.  "  Though  absent,  un- 
forgotten  !" — to  a  female  correspondent 
whom  she  has  not  written  to  for  perhaps 
the  three  last  (twopenny)  posts  ;  or,  "  fota 
le  meritez  !"  with  the  figure  of  a  "  rose  "— 
emblematic  of  every  thing  beautiful — 
when  she  writes  to  a  lover.  It  was  receiving 
a  note  with  this  last  seal  to  it  that  put  the 
subject  of  seals  into  my  mind ;  and  I  have 
some  notion  of  getting  one  engraved  with  the 
same  motto,  "  Vous  le  meritez,"  only  witV, 
the  personification  of  a  horsewhip  under  it, 
instead  of  a  "  rose '' — for  peculiar  occa- 
sions. And  perhaps  a  second  would  no. 
do  amiss,  with  the  same  emblem,  only  with 
the  motto,  "  Tu  Taurus .'"  as  a  sort  of  co- 
rollary upon  the  first,  in  cases  of  emer- 
gency !  At  all  events,  I  patronise  the  sys- 
tem of  a  variety  of  "  posies ;"  because 
where  the  inside  of  a  letter  is  likely  to  be 
stupid,  it  gives  you  the  chance  of  a  joke 
upon  the  out. — Monthly  Magazine 


BLEEDING  FOR  OUR  COUNTRV. 

It  is  related  of  a  Lord  Radnor  in  Chester- 
field's time,  that,  with  many  good  qualities, 
and  no  inconsiderable  share  of  learning,  he 
had  a  strong  desire  of  being  thought  skilful 
in  physic,  and  was  very  expert  in  bleeding. 
Lord  Chesterfield  knew  his  foible,  and  on  a 
particular  occasion,  wanting  his  vote,  came 
to  him,  and,  after  having  conversed  upon 
indifferent  matters,  complained  of  the  head- 
ach,  and  desired  his  lordship  to  feel  his 
pulse  Lord  Radnor  immediately  advised 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


92 


him  to  lose  blood.  Chesterfield  compliment- 
ed his  lordship  on  his  chirurgical  skill,  and 
begged  him  to  try  his  lancet  upon  him. 
"  A  propos,"  said  lord  Chesterfield,  after 
the  operation,  "  do  you  go  to  the  house  to- 
day?'* Lord  Radnor  answered,  "  I  did 
not  intend  to  go,  not  being  sufficiently  in- 
formed of  the  question  which  is  to  be 
debated  ;  but  you,  that  have  considered  it, 
which  side  will  you  be  of?" — The  wily  earl 
easily  directed  his  judgment,  carried  him  to 
the  house,  and  got  him  to  vote  as  he  pleased. 
Lord  Chesterfield  used  to  say,  that  none  of 
his  friends  had  been  as  patriotic  as  himself, 
for  he  had  "  lost  his  blood  for  the  good  of 
his  country." 


A  VILLAGE  NEW  YEAR, 
For  the  Table  Book. 

"  Almack's"  may  be  charming, — an  as- 
sembly at  the  "  Crown  and  Anchor,"  and  a 
hop  of  country  quality  at  the  annual  "  Race 
Ball,"   or  a  more  popular  "  set   to"  at  a 
fashionable  watering-place,  may  delight — 
but  a  lady  of  city  or  town  cannot  conceive 
the  emotions  enjoyed  by  a  party  collected 
in  the  village  to  see  the  "  old  year"  out  and 
the   "  new  year"   in.     At   this  time,   the 
"country  dance"  is  of  the  first  importance 
to  the  young  and  old,  yet  not  till  the  week 
has  been  occupied  by  abundant  provisions 
of  meat,  fruit  tarts,  and  mince  pies,  which, 
with  made  wines,  ales,  and  spirits,  are,  like 
the  blocks  for  fuel,  piled  in  store  for  all 
partakers,  gentle  and  simple.     Extra  best 
beds,  stabling,  and  hay,  are  made  ready, — 
fine  celery  dug, — the  china  service  and  pew- 
ter plates  examined, — in  short,  want  and 
wish  are  anticipated,  nothing  is  omitted, 
but  every  effort  used  to  give  proofs  of  ge- 
nuine hospitality.     This  year,  if  there  is  to 
be  war  in  Portugal,  many  widowed  hearts 
and  orphan  spirits  may  be  diverted  from,  not 
to,  a  scene  which  is  witnessed  in  places 
where  peace  and  plenty  abound.    However, 
I  will  not  be  at  war  by  conjecture,  but  sup- 
pose much  of  the  milk  of  hutncn  kindness 
to  be  shared   with  those  who  look  at  the 
sunny  side  of  things. 

After  tea,  at  which  the  civilities  of  the 
most  gallant  of  the  young  assist  to  lighten 
the  task  of  the  hostess,  the  fiddler  is  an- 
nounced, the  "  country  dance"  begins,  and 
the  lasses  are  all  alive  ;  their  eyes  seem  lus- 
trous and  their  animal  spirits  rise  to  the 
zero  of  harmonious  and  beautiful  attraction. 


The  choosing  of  partners  and  tunes  with  fa- 
vourite figures  is  highly  considered.     Old 
folks  who  have  a  leg  left  and  are  desirous 
of  repeating  the  step  (though  not  so  light) 
of  fifty  years  back,  join  the  dance;  and  the 
floor,  whether  of  stone  or  wood,  is  swept  to 
notes  till  feet  are  tired.     This  is  pursued 
till  suppertime  at  ten  o'clock.     Meantime, 
the  "  band"  (called  "  waits"  in  London)  is 
playing  before  the  doors  of  the  great  neigh- 
bours, and  regaled  with  beer,  and  chine, 
and  pies ;  the  village  "  college'youths1'  are 
tuning  the  handbells,  and  the  admirers  of 
the  "  steeple  chase"  loiter  about  the  church- 
yard to  hear  the  clock  strike   twelve,  and 
startle  the  air  by  high  mettle  sounds.     Me- 
thodist and  Moravian  dissenters  assemble 
at  their  places  of  worship  to  watch  out  the 
old  year,  and  continue  to  "  watch"  till  four 
or  five  in  the  new  year's  morning.     Vil- 
lagers, otherwise  disposed,  follow  the  church 
plan,  and  commemorate  the  vigils  in  the 
old  unreformed  way.     After  a  sumptuous 
supper, — at  which  some  maiden's  heart  is 
endangered  by  the  roguish  eye,  or  the  salute 
and  squeeze  by  stealth,  dancing  is  resumed 
and,   according   to   custom,    a   change   of 
partners  takes  place,  often  to  the  joy  and 
disappointment   of   love   and   lovers.     At 
every  rest — the  fiddler  makes  a  squeaking 
of  the  strings — this  is  called  kiss  'em  !  a 
practice  well  understood  by  the  tulip  fan- 
ciers.   The  pipes,  tobacco,  and  substantiate 
are  on  the  qui  vive,  by  the  elders  in  another 
part  of  the  house,  and  the  pint  goes  often 
to  the  cellar. 

As  the  clock  strikes  a  quarter  to  twelve, 
a  bumper  is  given  to  the  "  old  friend," 
standing,  with  three  farewells  1  and  while 
the  church  bells  strike  out  the  departure  of 
his  existence,  another  bumper  is  pledged  to 
.  the  "  new  infant,"  with  three  standing  hip, 
hip,  hip — huzzas  !  It  is  further  customary 
for  the  dance  to  continue  all  this  time,  that 
the  union  of  the  years  should  be  cemented 
by  friendly  intercourse.  Feasting  and 
merriment  are  carried  on  until  four  or  five 
o'clock,  when,  as  the  works  of  the  kitchen 
have  not  been  relaxed,  a  pile  of  sugar  toa?. 
is  prepared,  and  every  guest  must  partake 
of  its  sweetness,  and  praise  it  too,  before 
separation.  Headaches,  lassitude,  and  pale- 
ness, are  thought  little  of,  pleasure  sup- 
presses the  sigh,  and  the  spirit  of  joy  keeps 
the  undulations  of  care  in  proper  subjec- 
tion— Happy  times  these  ! — Joyful  opportu- 
nities borrowed  out  of  youth  to  be  repaid 
by  ripened  memory  ! — snatched,  as  it  were, 
from  the  wings  of  Time  to  be  written  on  his 
brow  with  wrinkles  hereafter. 

R.  P. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


Cfje  last  fciteesfc  of  tfce  23ufo  of 

(NOW  FIRST  ENGRAVED) 
FROM  THE  BUST  BY  BEHNES,  EXECUTED  FOR  His  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  IN   1826. 

In  the  rude  block  aspiring  talent  sees 
Its  patron's  face,  and  hews  it  out  with  ease; 
Ere  fail'd  the  royal  breath,  the  marble  breath' d, 
And  lives  to  be  by  gratitude  enwreath'd. 


Towards  the  close  of  the  year  1825,  the 
duke  of  York  commenced  to  sit  for  this  bust 
at  his  late  residence  in  the  Stable-yard,  St. 
James's  ;  and,  in  the  summer  of  1826,  con- 
tinued to  give  sittings,  till  its  final  comple- 
tion, at  the  artist's  house,  in  Dean-street, 
Soho.  The  marble  was  then  removed, 
fcr  exhibition,  to  the  Royal  Academy, 
and  from  thence  sent  home  to  his  royal 
highness,  at  Rutland-house.  The  duke 

VOL   I.— 4, 


and  his  royal  sister,  the  princess  Sophia, 
were  equally  delighted  with  the  true  and 
spirited  likeness,  and  gratified  by  its  pos- 
session, as  a  work  of  art. 

The  duke  of  York,  on  giving  his  orders 
to  Mr.  Behnes,  left  entirely  to  him  the 
arrangement  of  the  figure.  With  grea. 
judgment,  and  m  reference  to  his  roya. 
hignness's  distinguished  station,  the  artist 
has  placed  armour  on  the  body,  and  thrown 


9.1) 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


a  military  c"ioak  over  the  shoulders.  This 
judicious  combination  of  costume  imparts 
simplicity  and  breadth  to  the  bust,  and 
assists  the  manly  dignity  of  the  head.  The 
duke's  fine  open  features  bear  the  frank  and 
good  -  natured  expression  they  constantly 
wore  in  life:  the  resemblance  being  minutely 
faithful,  is  as  just  to  his  royal  highness's 
exalted  and  benevolent  character,  as  it  is 
creditable  to  Mr.  Behnes's  execution.  Th-j 
present  engraving  is  a  hasty  sketch  of  its 
general  appearance.  His  royal  highness 
kindly  permitted  Mr.  Behnes  to  take  casts 
from  the  sculpture.  Of  the  many,  there- 
fore, who  experienced  the  duke  of  York's 
friendship  or  favour,  any  one  who  desires 
to  hold  his  royal  highness's  person  in  re- 
membrance, has  an  opportunity  of  obtaining 
a  fac-simile  of  the  original  bust,  which  is  as 
'arge  as  life. 

Mr.  Behnes  was  the  last  artist  to  whom 
.he  duke  sat,  and,  consequently,  this  is  his 
List  likeness.  The  marble  was  in  the  pos- 
session of  his  royal  highness  during  his  long 
illness,  and  to  the  moment  of  his  death,  in 
Arlington-street.  Its  final  destination  will 
bt,  appropriated  by  those  to  whom  he  was 
most  attached,  and  on  whom  the  disposition 
of  such  a  memorial  necessarily  devolves. 

To  the  ample  accounts  of  the  duke  of 
York  in  the  different  journals,  the  Table 
Book  brings  together  a  few  particulars 
omitted  to  be  collected,  preceded  by  a  few 
notices  respecting  his  royal  highness's  title, 
a  correct  list  of  all  the  dukes  of  York  from 
their  origin,  and,  first,  with  an  interesting 
paper  by  a  gentleman  who  favoured  the 
Every-Day  Book  with  some  valuable  gene- 
alogical communications. 


SHAKSPEARE'S  DUKES  OF  YORK,  &c. 

For  the  Table  Book. 

The  elastic  buoyancy  of  spirits,  joined 
with  the  rare  affability  of  disposition,  which 
prominently  marked  the  character  of  the 
prince  whose  recent  loss  we  deplore,  ren- 
dered him  the  enthusiastic  admirer  and 
steady  supporter  of  the  English  stage.  I 
hope  I  shall  not  be  taken  to  task  for  allud- 
ing to  a  trifling  coincidence,  on  recalling  to 
recollection  how  largely  the  mighty  master 
of  this  department,  our  immortal  Shak- 
speare,  has  drawn  upon  his  royal  highness's 
illustrious  predecessors  in  title,  in  those  un- 
rivalled dramatic  sketches  which  unite  the 
lorce  of  genius  with  the  simplicity  of 
nature,  whilst  they  impart  to  the  strictly 
accurate  annals  of  our  national  history 


some  of  the  mosi  vivid  illuminations  which 
blaze  through  the  records  of  our  national 
eloquence. 

The  touches  of  a  master-hand  giving 
vent  to  the  emanations  of  a  mighty  mind 
are,  perhaps,  no  where  more  palpably 
traced,  than  throughout  those  scenes  of  the 
historical  play  of  Richard  II.,  where  Ed- 
mund of  Langley,  duke  of  York,  (son  of 
king  Edward  III.,)  struggles  mentally  be- 
tween sentiments  of  allegiance  to  his  weak 
and  misguided  sovereign  on  the  one  hand, 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  his  sense  of  his  other 
nephew  Bolingbroke's  grievous  wrongs, 
and  the  injuries  inflicted  on  his  country  by 
a  system  of  favouritism,  profusion,  and  op- 
pression. 

Equal  skill  and  feeling  are  displayed  in 
the  delineation  of  his  son  Rutland's  devot- 
ed attachment  to  his  dethroned  benefactor, 
and  the  adroit  detection,  at  a  critical  mo- 
ment, of  the  conspiracy,  into  which  he  had 
entered  for  Richard's  restoration. 

In  the  subsequent  play  of  Henry  V., 
(perhaps  the  most  heart-stirring  of  this  in- 
teresting series,)  we  learn  how  nobly  this 
very  Rutland  (who  had  succeeded  his 
father,  Edmund  of  Langley,  as  duke  of 
York)  repaid  Henry  IV/s  generous  and 
unconditional  pardon,  by  his  heroic  con- 
duct in  the  glorious  field  of  Agincourt, 
where  he  sealed  his  devotion  to  his  king 
and  country  with  his  blood. 

Shakspeare  has  rendered  familiar  to  us 
the  intricate  plans  of  deep-laid  policy,  and 
the  stormy  scenes  of  domestic  desolation, 
through  which  his  nephew  and  successor, 
Richard,  the  next  duke  of  York,  obtained 
a  glimpse  of  that  throne,  to  which,  accord- 
ing to  strictness,  he  was  legitimately  enti- 
tled just  before 

"  York  overlook'd  the  town  of  York." 

The  licentious  indulgence,  the  hard- 
hearted selfishness,  the  reckless  cruelty, 
which  history  indelibly  stamps  as  the  cha- 
racteristics of  his  son  and  successor,  Ed- 
ward, who  shortly  afterwards  seated  him- 
self firmly  on  the  throne,  are  presented  to 
us  in  colours  equally  vivid  and  authentic. 
The  interestingly  pathetic  detail  of  the 
premature  extinction  in  infancy  of  his 
second  son,  prince  Richard,  whom  he  had 
invested  with  the  title  of  York,  is  brought 
before  our  eyes  in  the  tragedy  of  Richard 
III.,  with  a  forcible  skill  and  a  plaintive 
energy,  which  set  the  proudest  efforts  of 
preceding  or  following  dramatic  writers  at 
defiance. 

To  "bluff  king  Hal,"  (who,  during  the 
lifetime  of  his  elder  brother,  Arthur,  prince 


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of  Wales,  had  next  borne  this  exclusively 
royal  title  of  duke  of  York,)  ample  justice 
is  rendered,  in  every  point  of  view,  in  that 
production,  as  eminent  for  its  gorgeous 
pageantry  as  for  its  subdued  interest,  in 
which  most  of  our  elder  readers  must  have 
been  sufficiently  fortunate  to  witness  the 
transcendant  merits  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  as 
Queen  Catherine,  surpassing  even  her  own 
accustomed  excellence. 

Had,  contrary  to  the  wonted  career  of 
the  triumph  of  human  intellect,  a  Shak- 
speare  enraptured  and  adorned  the  next 
generation,  what  studies  would  not  the 
characters  and  fates  of  the  martyred  Charles 
I.,  and  his  misguided  son,  James  II.,  have 
afforded  to  his  contemplation.  Both  these 
sovereigns,  during  the  lives  of  their  respec- 
tive elder  brothers,  bore  the  title  of  duke  of 
York. 

The  counties  of  York  and  Lancaster  are 
the  only  two  in  England  from  which  the 
titles  conferred  have  been  exclusively  en- 
joyed by  princes  of  the  blood  royal.  It 
maybe  safely  asserted,  that  neither  of  these 
designations  has  ever  illustrated  an  indivi- 
dual, who  was  not  either  son,  brother, 
grandson,  or  nephew  of  the  sovereign  of 
this  realm. 

Richard,  duke  of  York,  killed  at  the 
battle  of  Wakefield,  may,  at  first  sight, 
strike  the  reader  as  an  exception  to  this 
assertion,  he  being  only  cousin  to  Henry 
VI.;  but  we  ought  to  bear  in  mind,  that 
fliis  Richard  was  himself  entitled  to  that 
Ihrone,  of  which  his  eldest  son  shortly  after- 
wards obtained  possession,  under  the  title 
of  Edward  IV. 

By  the  treaty  of  Westphalia,  concluded 
at  Munster,  in  1648,  which  put  an  end  to 
the  memorable  war  that  desolated  the 
fairest  portion  of  the  civilized  world  during 
thirty  years,  it  was  stipulated  that  the 
bishopric  of  Osnaburgh,  then  secularized, 
should  be  alternately  possessed  by  a  prince 
of  the  catholic  house  of  Bavaria,  and  the 
protestant  house  of  Brunswick  Lunen- 
burgh.  It  is  somewhat  remarkable,  on  the 
score  of  dates,  that  the  Bavarian  family 
enjoyed  but  one  presentation  between  the 
death  of  Ernest  Augustus,  duke  of  York, 
in  1728,  and  the  presentation  of  his  great, 
great,  great  nephew,  the  lamented  prince 
whose  loss,  in  1827,  is  so  deeply  and  justly 
deplored. 

W.  P. 

OTHO,  EARL  OF  YORK. 

More  than  five  centuries  before  a  prince 
of  th<;  house  cf  Brunswick  sat  on  the 


British  throne,  there  is  a  name  in  the 
genealogy  of  the  Guelphs  connected  with 
the  title  of  York. 

Until  the  time  of  Gibbon,  the  learned 
were  inclined  to  ascribe  to  Azo,  the  great 
patriarch  of  the  house  of  Este,  a  direct 
male  descent  from  Charlemagne:  the  bril- 
liant result  of  this  able  investigator's  re- 
searches prove,  in  Azo's  behalf,  four  cer- 
tain lineal  ascents,  and  two  others,  highly 
probable, 


•  from  the  pure  well  of  Italian  uudefiled." 


Azo,  marquis  or  lord  of  Tuscany,  mar- 
ried Cunegunda,  a  daughter  of  a  Guelph, 
who  was  also  sister  of  a  Guelph,  and  heir- 
ess of  the  last  Guelph.  The  issue  of  this 
alliance  was  Guelph  I.,  who,  at  a  time  be- 
fore titles  were  well  settled,  was  either 
duke  or  count  of  Altdorff.  He  was  suc- 
ceeded by  his  son,  Henry  the  Black,  who 
married  Wolfhildis,  heiress  of  Lunenburgb, 
and  other  possessions  on  the  Elbe,  which 
descended  to  their  son,  Henry  the  Proud, 
who  wedded  Gertrude,  the  heiress  of  Sax- 
ony, Brunswick,  and  Hanover.  These 
large  domains  centered  in  their  eldest 
son,  Henry  the  Lion,  who  married  Maud, 
daughter  of  Henry  II.,  kin^  of  England, 
and,  in  the  conflicts  of  the  times,  lost  all 
his  possessions,  except  his  allodial  territo-- 
ries  of  Lunenburgh,  Brunswick,  and  Hano- 
ver. The  youngest  son  of  this  marriage 
was  William  of  Winchester,  or  Longsword, 
from  whom  descended  the  dukes  of  Bruns- 
wick and  Lunenburgh,  in  Germany,  pro- 
genitors to  the  house  of  Hanover.  His 
elder  brother,  Otho,  is  said  to  have  borne 
the  title  of  York. 

This  Otho,  duke  of  Saxony,  the  eldest 
son  of  Henry  the  Lion,  and  Maud,  was 
afterwards  emperor  of  Germany ;  but  pre- 
vious to  attaining  the  imperial  dignity,  he 
was  created  earl  of  York  by  Richard  I.,  king 
cf  England,  who,  according  to  some  authori- 
ties, subsequently  exchanged  with  Otho. 
and  gave  him  the  earldom  of  Poictou  for 
that  of  York.  Otho's  relation  to  this  king- 
dom, as  earl  of  York,  and  grandson  of 
Henry  II.,  is  as  interesting  as  his  fortunes 
were  remarkable. 

The  emperor,  Henry  VI.,  having  died, 
and  left  his  son,  Frederick,  an  infant  three 
months  old,  to  the  care  of  his  brother 
Philip,  duke  of  Suabia ;  the  minority  of 
Frederick  tempted  pope  Innocent  to  divest 
the  house  of  Suabia  of  the  imperial  crown, 
and  he  prevailed  on  certain  princes  to  elect 
Otho,  of  Saxony,  emperor:  other  princes 
reelected  the  infant  Frederick.  The  con- 
tention continued  between  the  rival  c.indi- 


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100 


dates,  with  repeated  elections.  Otho,  by 
flattering  the  clergy,  obtained  himself  to  be 
crowned  at  Rome,  and  assumed  the  title  of 
Otho  IV. ;  but  some  of  his  followers  having 
been  killed  by  the  Roman  citizens  he  me- 
ditated revenge,  and  instead  of  returning  to 
Germany,  reconquered  certain  possessions 
usurped  from  the  empire  by  the  pope.  For 
this  violence  Otho  was  excommunicated 
by  the  holy  father,  who  turned  his  influ- 
ence in  behalf  of  the  youthful  Frederick, 
and  procured  him  to  be  elected  emperor 
instead.  Otho  had  a  quarrel  with  Philip 
Augustus,  king  of  France,  respecting  an  old 
wager  between  them.  Philip,  neither  be- 
lieving nor  wishing  that  Otho  could  attain 
the  imperial  dignity,  had  wagered  the  best 
city  in  his  kingdom  against  whichever  he 
should  select  of  Otho's  baggage  horses,  if 
he  carried  his  point  After  Otho  had 
achieved  it,  he  seriously  demanded  the  city 
of  Paris  from  Philip,  who  quite  as  seriously 
refused  to  deliver  up  his  capital.  War 
ensued,  and  in  the  decisive  battle  of 
Bovines,  called  the  "  battle  of  the  spurs," 
from  the  number  of  knights  who  perished, 
Philip  defeated  Otho  at  the  head  of  two 
hundred  thousand  Germans.  The  imperial 
dragon,  which  the  Germans,  in  their  wars, 
were  accustomed  to  plant  on  a  great  armed 
chariot  with  a  guard  chosen  from  the 
flower  of  the  army,  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  victors,  and  the  emperor  himself  barely 
escaped  at  the  hazard  of  his  life.  This 
battle  was  fought  in  August,  1215 ;  and 
Otho,  completely  vanquished,  retreated 
upon  his  devotions,  and  died  in  1218, 
without  issue.* 

The  wager,  in  its  consequences  so  dis- 
astrous to  the  Germans,  and  so  illustrious 
to  the  French  arms,  was  made  with  Philip 
while  Otho  was  passing  through  France  on 
his  way  from  the  court  of  England.  Col- 
lectors of  "  engraved  British  portraits,"  and 
the  portraits  of  persons  who  "  come  into 
England,"  should  look  to  this.  How  many 
illustrated  "  Grangers "  are  there  with  a 
portrait  of  Otho  IV.,  earl  of  York? 


THE  DUKES  OF  YORK. 
I. 

Edmund  Plantagenet,  surnamed  De 
Langley,  from  his  birth-place,  fifth  son  of 
king  Edward  III.,  was  first  created  earl  of 
Jambridge  by  his  father,  and  afterwards 
created  duke  of  York  by  his  nephew, 
Richard  II.  He  was  much  influenced  by 

•  Hist,  of  House  of  Austria     Rapin.  Farme. 


his  brother,  the  duke  of  Gloucester;  and 
an  historian  of  the  period  calls  him  "  a  soft 
prince."  It  is  certain  that  he  had  few  stir- 
ring qualities,  and  that  passive  virtues  were 
not  valued  in  an  age  when  they  were  of 
little  service  to  contending  parties.  In 
1402,  three  years  after  the  accession  of 
Henry  IV.,  he  died  at  his  manor  of  Lang- 
ley,  and  was  interred  in  the  priory  there. 

II. 

Edward  Plantagenet,  second  duke  of 
York,  was  son  of  the  first  duke,  grandson 
to  Edward  III.,  and  great  uncle  to  Henry 
V.,  by  whose  side  he  valiantly  fought  and 
perished,  in  the  field  of  Agincourt,  October 
25,  1415. 

III. 

Richard  Plantagenet,  third  duke  of  York, 
nephew  of  the  second  duke,  and  son  of 
Richard  earl  of  Cambridge,  who  was  exe- 
cuted for  treason  against  Henry  V.,  was 
restored  to  his  paternal  honours  by  Henry 
VI.,  and  allowed  to  succeed  to  his  uncle's 
inheritance.  As  he  was  one  of  the  most 
illustrious  by  descent,  so  he  became  one  of 
the  most  powerful  subjects  through  his 
dignities  and  alliances.  After  the  death  of 
the  duke  of  Bedford,  the  celebrated  regent 
of  France,  he  was  appointed  to  succeed 
him,  and  with  the  assistance  of  the  valorous 
lord  Talbot,  afterwards  earl  of  Shrewsbury, 
maintained  a  footing  in  the  French  territo- 
ries upwards  of  five  years.  The  incapacity 
of  Henry  VI.  incited  him  to  urge  his  claim 
to  the  crown  of  England  in  right  of  his 
mother,  through  whom  he  descended  from 
Philippa,  only  daughter  of  the  duke  of 
Clarence,  second  son  to  Edward  III. ; 
whereas  the  king  descended  from  the 
duke  of  Lancaster,  third  son  of  that  mo- 
narch. The  duke's  superiority  of  descent,  his 
valour  and  mildness  in  various  high  em- 
ployments, and  his  immense  possessions, 
derived  through  numerous  successions,  gave 
him  influence  with  the  nobility,  and  pro- 
cured him  formidable  connections.  He 
levied  war  against  the  king,  and  without 
material  loss  slew  about  five  thousand  of 
the  royal  forces  at  St.  Alban's,  on  the  22d 
of  May,  1452.  This  was  the  first  blood 
spilt  in  the  fierce  and  fatal  quarrel  between 
the  rival  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster, 
which  lasted  thirty  years,  was  signalized  by 
twelve  pitched  battles,  cost  the  lives  o*' 
eighty  princes  of  the  blood,  and  almost 
annihilated  the  ancient  nobility  of  England 
After  this  battle,  the  duke's  irresolution,  and 
the  heroism  of  Margaret,  queen  of  Henry 
VI.,  caused  a  suspension  of  hostilities. 


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The  leaders  on  both  sides  assented  to  meet 
in  London,  and  be  solemnly  reconciled.  ' 
The  duke  of  York  led  the  queen  in  solemn 
procession  to  St.  Paul's,  and  the  chiefs  of 
one  party  marched  hand  in  hand  with  the 
chiefs  of  the  other.  It  was  a  public  de- 
monstration of  peace,  with  secret  mutual 
distrust;  and  an  accident  aroused  the  slum- 
bering strife.  One  of  the  king's  retinue  in- 
sulted one  of  the  earl  of  Warwick's  ;  their 
companions  fought,  and  both  parties  in 
every  county  flew  to  arms.  The  battle  of 
Bloreheath,  in  Staffordshire,  23d  Septem- 
ber, 1459,  was  won  by  the  Lancastrians. 
At  the  battle  of  Northampton,  10th  July, 
1560,  the  Yorkists  had  the  victory,  and  the 
king  was  taken  prisoner.  A  parliament, 
summoned  in  the  king's  name,  met  at 
Westminster,  which  the  duke  of  York  at- 
tended ;  and,  had  he  then  seated  himself  on 
the  throne  in  the  House  of  Lords,  the 
deadly  feud  might  have  been  ended  by  his 
being  proclaimed  king ;  but  his  coolness  and 
moderation  intimidated  his  friends,  and  en- 
couraged his  enemies.  His  personal  cou- 
rage was  undoubted,  but  he  was  deficient 
m  political  courage.  The  parliament  de- 
Sberated,  and  though  they  declared  the 
duke's  title  indefeasible,  yet  they  decided 
fhat  Henry  should  retain  the  crown  during 
life.  They  provided,  however,  that  till  the 
king's  decease  the  government  should  be 
administered  by  the  duke,  as  the  true  and 
lawful  heir  of  the  monarchy  ;  and  in  this 
arrangement  Richard  acquiesced.  Mean- 
whrle,  queen  Margaret,  with  her  infant  son, 
appealed  to  the  barons  of  the  north  against 
the  settlement  in  the  south,  and  collected 
an  army  with  astonishing  celerity.  The 
duke  of  York  hastened  with  five  thousand 
troops  to  quell  what  he  imagined  to  be  the 
beginning  of  an  insurrection,  and  found, 
near  Wakefield,  a  force  of  twenty  thousand 
men.  He  threw  himself  into  Sandal  castle, 
but  with  characteristic  bravery,  imagining 
he  should  be  disgraced  by  remaining  be- 
tween walls  in  fear  of  a  female,  he  descended 
into  the  plain  of  Wakefield  on  the  24th  of 
December,  and  gave  battle  to  the  queen, 
who  largely  outnumbering  his  little  army, 
defeated  and  slew  him ;  and  his  son,  the 
earl  of  Rutland,  an  innocent  youth  of  seven- 
teen, having  been  taken  prisoner,  was  mur- 
dered in  cold  blood  by  the  lord  de  Clifford. 
Margaret  caused  the  duke's  head  to  be  cut 
>ff,  and  fixed  on  the  gates  of  the  city  of 
fork,  with  a  paper  crown  on  it  in  derision 
of  his  claim.  He  perished  in  the  fiftieth 
year  of  his  age,  worthy  of  a  better  fate. 

IV. 
Edward    Plantagenet,   fourth    duke    of 


York,  eldest  son  of  the  last,  prosecuted  his 
father's  pretensions,  and  defeated  the  earl 
of  Pembroke,  half  brother  to  Henry  VI., 
at  Mortimer's  Cross,  in  Herefordshire. 
Shortly  afterwards,  queen  Margaret  ad- 
vanced upon  London,  and  gained  a  victory 
over  the  Yorkists  under  the  earl  of  War- 
wick, at  the  second  battle  of  St.  Alban's, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  regained  possession 
of  the  person  of  her  weak  husband.  Pressed 
by  the  Yorkists,  she  retreated  to  the  north 
and  the  youthful  duke,  remarkable  for 
beauty  of  person,  bravery,  affability,  and 
every  popular  quality,  entered  the  capital 
amidst  the  acclamations  of  the  citizens. 
Elated  by  his  success,  he  resolved  to  openly 
insist  on  his  claim,  and  treat  his  adversaries 
as  rebels  and  traitors.  On  the  3d  of  March, 
1460,  he  caused  his  army  to  muster  in  St. 
John's  Fields,  Clerkenwell ;  and  after  an 
harangue  to  the  multitude  surrounding  his 
soldiery,  the  tumultuary  crowd  were  asked 
whether  they  would  have  Henry  of  Lan- 
caster, or  Edward,  eldest  son  of  the  late 
duke  of  York,  for  king.  Their  "  sweet 
voices"  were  for  the  latter;  and  this  show 
of  popular  election  was  ratified  by  a  great 
number  of  bishops,  lords,  magistrates,  and 
other  persons  of  distinction,  assembled  for 
that  purpose  at  Baynard's  Castle.  On  the 
morrow,  the  duke  went  to  St.  Paul's  and 
offered,  and  had  Te  Deum  sung,  and  was 
with  great  royalty  conveyed  to  Westmin- 
ster, and  there  in  the  great  hall  sat  in  the 
king's  seat,  with  St.  Edward's  sceptre  in 
his  hand.  On  the  29th  of  March,  1461,  ne 
fought  the  fierce  and  bloody  battle  of  Teu- 
ton, wherein  he  issued  orders  to  give  no 
quarter,  and  there  were  above  thirty-six 
thousand  slain.  This  slaughter  confirmed 
him  king  of  England,  and  he  reigned  up- 
wards of  twenty  years  under  the  title  of 
Edward  IV.,  defiling  his  fame  and  power 
by  effeminacy  and  cruelty.  The  title  of 
York  merged  in  the  royal  dignity. 

V. 

Richard  Plantagenet,  of  Shrewsbury, 
Jj/Mdukeof  York,  son  of  Edward  IV.,  was 
murdered  in  the  tower  while  young,  with 
his  elder  brother,  Edward  V.,  by  order  of 
their  uncle,  the  duke  of  Gloucester,  after- 
wards Richard  III. 

VI. 

Henry  Tudor,  sixth  duke  of  York,  was 
so  created  by  his  father  Henry  VII.,  whom 
he  succeeded  as  king,  under  the  title  of 
Henry  VIII.,  and  stained  onr  annals  "-jt>> 
hoartless  crimes. 


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104 


VII. 


Charles  Stuart,  seventh  duke  of  York, 
was  second  son  of  James  I.,  by  whom  he 
was  created  to  that  title  in  1604,  and  whom 
he  succeeded  in  the  throne  as  Charles  I. 

VIII. 

James  Stuart,  a  younger  son  of  Charles  I., 
was  the  eighth  duke  of  York.  While  bear- 
ing this  title  during  the  reign  of  his  brother 
Charles  II.,  he  manifested  great  personal 
courage  as  a  naval  commander,  in  several 
actions  with  the  Dutch.  Under  the  title  of 
James  II.,  he  incompetently  filled  the 
throne  and  weakly  abdicated  it. 

IX. 

Ernest  Augustus  Guelph,  ninth  duke  of 
York,  duke  of  Albany,  earl  of  Ulster,  and 
bishop  of  Osnaburgh,  was  brother  to  George 
Lewis  Guelph,  elector  of  Hanover,  and 
king  of  England  as  George  I.,  by  letters 
from  whom,  in  1716,  he  was  dignified  as 
above,  and  died  in  1 728,  unmarried. 

X. 

Edward  Augustus,  tenth  duke  of  York, 
duke  of  Albany,  and  earl  of  Ulster,  was 
second  son  of  Frederick  prince  of  Wales, 
and  brother  to  king  George  III.,  by  whom 
lie  was  created  to  those  titles.  He  died  at 
Monaco,  in  Italy,  September  17,  1767,  un- 
married. 

XI. 
THE  LATE  DUKE  OF  YORK. 

Frederick,  eleventh  Duke  of  York,  was 
orother  of  His  Majesty  King  George  IV., 
and  second  son  of  his  late  Majesty  King 
George  III ,  by  whom  he  was  advanced  to 
the  dignities  of  Duke  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Great  Britain,  and  of  Earl  of  the  Kingdom 
of  Ireland,  by  the  titles  of  Duke  of  York 
and  of  Albany  in  Great  Britain,  and  of  Earl 
of  Ulster  in  Ireland,  and  presented  to  the 
Bishopric  of  Osnaburgh.  His  Royal 
Highness  was  Commander-in-Chief  of  all 
the  Land  Forces  of  the  United  Kingdom, 
Colonel  of  the  First  Regiment  of  Foot 
Guards,  Colonel-in-chief  of  the  60th  Regi- 
ment of  Infantry,  Officiating  Grand  Master 
of  the  Order  of  the  Bath,  High  Steward  of 
New  Windsor,  Warden  and  Keeper  of  the 
New  Forest  Hampshire,  Knight  of  the 
Garter,  Knight  of  the  Order  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  in  France,  of  the  Black  Eagle  in 
Russia,  the  Red  Eagle  in  Prussia,  of  St. 
Maria  Theresa  in  Austria,  of  Charles  III. 
in  Spain,  Doctor  of  Civil  Law,  and  Fellow 
ot  the  Royal  Society. 

The  late  duke  of  York  was  born  on  the 


16th  of  August,  1763 ;  he  died  on  the  5th 
of  January,  1827.  A  few  miscellaneous 
memoranda  are  extracted  from  journals  of 
the  dates  they  refer  to. 


The  duke  of  York  was  sent  to  Germany 
to  finish  his  education.  On  the  1st  of 
August,  1787,  his  royal  highness,  after 
having  been  only  five  days  on  the  road  from 
Hanover  to  Calais,  embarked  at  that  port, 
on  board  a  common  packet-boat,  for  Eng- 
land, and  arrived  at  Dover  the  same  after- 
noon. He  was  at  St.  James's-palace  the 
following  day  by  half-past  twelve  o'clock  ; 
and,  on  the  arrival  of  the  prince  of  Wales 
at  Carlton-house,  he  was  visited  by  the 
duke,  after  an  absence  of  four  years,  which, 
far  from  cooling,  had  increased  the  affection 
of  the  royal  brothers. 

On  the  20th  of  December,  in  the  same 
year,  a  grand  masonic  lodge  was  held  at 
the  Star  and  Garter  in  Pall-mall.  The 
duke  of  Cumberland  as  grand-master,  the 
prince  of  Wales,  and  the  duke  of  York,  were 
in  the  new  uniform  of  the  Britannic-lodge, 
and  the  duke  of  York  received  another  de- 
gree in  masonry  ;  he  had  some  time  before 
been  initiated  in  the  first  mysteries  of  the 
brotherhood. 

On  the  5th  of  February,  1788,  the  duke 
of  York  appeared  in  the  Court  of  King's 
Bench,  and  was  sworn  to  give  evidence 
before  the  grand  jury  of  Middlesex,  on  an 
indictment  for  fraud,  in  sending  a  letter  to 
his  royal  highness,  purporting  to  be  a  letter 
from  captain  Morris,  requesting  the  loan  of 
forty  pounds.  The  grand  jury  found  the  in- 
dictment, and  the  prisoner,  whose  name 
does  not  appear,  was  brought  into  court  by 
the  keeper  of  Tothill-fields  Bridewell,  and 
pleaded  not  guilty,  whereupon  he  was  re- 
manded, and  the  indictment  appointed  to 
be  tried  in  the  sittings  after  the  following 
term ;  but  there  is  no  account  of  the  trial 
having  been  had. 


In  December  of  the  same  year,  the  duke 
ordered  two  hundred  and  sixty  sacks  of 
coals  to  be  distributed  among  the  families 
of  the  married  men  of  his  regiment,  and 
the  same  to  be  continued  during  the  seve- 
rity of  the  weather. 


In  1788,  pending  the  great  question  of 
the  regency,  it  was  contended  on  that  side 
of  the  House  of  Commons  from  whence 


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extension  of  royal  prerogative  was  least  eS- 
pected,that  from  the  moment  parliament  was 
made  acquainted  with  the  king's  incapacity, 
a  right  attached  to  the  prince  of  Wales  to 
exercise  the  regal  functions,  in  the  name  of 
nis  father.  On  the  15th  of  December,  the 
duke  of  York  rose  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
and  a  profound  silence  ensued.  His  royal 
nighness  said,  that  though  perfectly  unused 
as  he  was  to  speak  in  a  public  assembly, 
vet  he  could  not  refrain  from  offering  his 
sentiments  to  their  lordships  on  a  subject 
in  which  the  dearest  interests  of  the  country 
were  involved.  He  said,  he  entirely  agreed 
with  the  noble  lords  who  had  expressed 
their  wishes  to  avoid  any  question  which 
tended  to  induce  a  discussion  on  the  rights 
of  the  prince.  The  fact  was  plain,  that  no 
such  claim  of  right  had  been  made  on  the 
part  of  the  prince;  and  he  was  confident 
that  his  royal  highness  understood  too  well 
the  sacred  principles  which  seated  the  house 
of  Brunswick  on  the  throne  of  Great  Bri- 
tain, ever  to  assume  or  exercise  any  power, 
be  his  claim  ivhat  it  might,  not  derived  from 
the  will  of  the  people,  expressed  by  their 
representatives  and  their  lordships  in  parlia- 
ment assembled.  On  this  ground  his  royal 
highness  said,  that  he  must  be  permitted  to 
hope  that  the  wisdom  and  moderation  of  all 
considerate  men,  at  a  moment  when  temper 
and  unanimity  were  so  peculiarly  necessary, 
on  account  of  the  dreadful  calamity  which 
every  description  of  persons  must  in  com- 
mon lament,  but  which  he  more  par- 
ticularly felt,  would  make  them  wish  to 
avoid  pressing  a  decision,  which  certainly 
was  not  necessary  to  the  great  object  ex- 
pected from  parliament,  and  which  must  be 
most  painful  in  the  discussion  to  a  family 
already  sufficiently  agitated  and  afflicted. 
His  royal  highness  concluded  with  saying, 
that  these  were  the  sentiments  of  an  honest 
heart,  equally  influenced  by  duty  and  affec- 
tion to  his  royal  father,  and  attachment  to 
the  constitutional  rights  of  his  subjects  ; 
and  that  he  was  confident,  if  his  royal  bro- 
ther were  to  address  them  in  his  place  as  a 
peer  of  the  realm,  that  these  were  the  senti- 
ments which  he  would  distinctly  avow. 

His  majesty  in  council  having  declared 
his  consent,  under  the  great  seal,  to  a  con- 
tract of  matrimony  between  his  royal  high- 
ness the  duke  of  York  and  her  royal  high- 
ness the  princess  Frederique  Charlotte 
Ulrique  Catherine  of  Prussia,  eldest  daugh- 
ter of  the  king  of  Prussia,  on  the  29th  of  Sep- 
tember, 1791,  the  marriage  ceremony  was 
performed  at  Berlin.  About  six  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  all  the  persons  of  the  blood 


royal  assembled  in  gala,  in  the  apartments 
of  the  dowager  queen,  where  the  diamond 
crown  was  put  on  the  head  of  princess 
Frederica.  The  generals,  ministers,  ambas- 
sadors, and  the  high  nobility,  assembled  in 
the  white  hall.  At  seven  o'clock,  the  duke  of 
York,  preceded  by  the  gentlemen  of  the 
chamber,  and  the  court  officers  of  state,  led 
the  princess  his  spouse,  whose  train  was 
carried  by  four  ladies  of  the  court,  through 
all  the  paiade  apartments;  after  them  went 
the  king,  with  the  queen  dowager,  prince 
Lewis  of  Prussia,  with  the  reigning  queen, 
and  others  of  the  royal  family  to  the  white 
hall,  where  a  canopy  was  erected  of  crimson 
velvet,  and  also  a  crimson  velvet  sofa  for 
the  marriage  ceremony.  The  royal  couple 
placed  themselves  under  the  canopy,  before 
the  sofa,  the  royal  family  stood  round 
them,  and  the  upper  counsellor  of  the  con- 
sistory, Mr.  Sack,  made  a  speech  in  German. 
This  being  over,  rings  were  exchanged  ;  and 
the  illustrious  couple,  kneeling  on  the 
sofa,  were  married  according  to  the  rites 
of  the  reformed  church.  The  whole  ended 
with  a  prayer.  Twelve  guns,  placed  in  the 
garden,  fired  three  rounds,  and  the  bene- 
diction was  given.  The  new-married  couple 
then  received  the  congratulations  of  the 
royal  family,  and  returned  in  the  same 
manner  to  the  apartments,  where  the  royal 
family,  and  all  persons  present,  sat  down 
to  card-tables  ;  after  which,  the  whob 
court,  the  high  nobility,  and  the  ambassa- 
dors, sat  down  to  supper,  at  six  tables. 
The  first  was  placed  under  a  canopy  of 
crimson  velvet,  and  the  victuals  served  in 
gold  dishes  and  plates.  The  other  five 
tables,  at  which  sat  the  generals,  ministers, 
ambassadors,  all  the  officers  of  the  court, 
and  the  high  nobility,  were  served  in  other 
apartments. 

During  supper,  music  continued  playing 
in  the  galleries  of  the  first  hall,  which  im- 
mediately began  when  the  company  entered 
the  hall.  At  the  dessert,  the  royal  table 
was  served  with  a  beautiful  set  of  china, 
made  in  the  Berlin  manufactory.  Supper 
being  over,  the  whole  assembly  repaired  to 
the  white  hall,  where  the  trumpet,  timbrel, 
and  other  music  were  playing  ;  and  the  flam- 
beau dance  was  begun,  at  which  the  minis- 
ters of  state  carried  the  torches.  With  this 
ended  the  festivity.  The  ceremony  of  the 
re-marriage  of  the  duke  and  duchess  of 
York  took  place  at  the  Queen's  Palace, 
London,  on  the  23d  of  November. 

The  duchess  of  York  died  on  the  6th  of 
August,  1820. 


107 


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108 


THE  DAKCE  OF  TORCHES. 


As  a  note  of  illustration  on  this  dance  at 
the  Prussian  nuptials  of  the  duke  and 
duchess  of  York,  reference  may  be  had  to 
a  slight  mention  of  the  same  observance  on 
the  marriage  of  the  prince  royal  of  Prussia 
•with  the  princess  of  Bavaria,  in  the  Evert/- 
Day Book,  vol.  i.  p.  1551.  Since  that 
article,  I  find  more  descriptive  particulars 
of  it  in  a  letter  from  baron  Bielfeld, 
giving  an  account  of  the  marriage  of  the 
prince  of  Prussia  with  the  princess  of 
Brunswick  Wolfenbuttle,  at  Berlin,  in  1742. 
The  baron  was  present  at  the  ceremonial. 

"  As  soon  as  their  majesties  rose  from 
table,  the  whole  company  returned  into  the 
white  hall ;  from  whence  the  altar  was  re- 
moved, and  the  room  was  illuminated  with 
fresh  wax  lights.  The  musicians  were 
placed  on  a  stage  of  solid  silver.  Six  lieu- 
tenant generals,  and  six  ministers  of  state, 
stood,  each  with  a  white  wax  torch  in  his 
hand,  ready  to  be  lighted,  in  conformity  to 
a  ceremony  used  in  the  German  courts 
on  these  occasions,  which  is  called  '  the 
dance  of  torches,'  in  allusion  to  the  torch 
of  Hymen.  This  dance  was  opened  by  the 
new  married  prince  and  princess,  who  made 
the  tour  cf  the  hall,  saluting  the  king  and 
the  company.  Before  them  went  the  minis- 
ters and  the  generals,  two  and  two,  with 
their  lighted  torches.  The  princess  then 
gave  her  hand  to  the  king,  and  the  prince 
to  the  queen ;  the  king  gave  his  hand  to 
the  queen  mother,  and  the  reigning  queen 
to  prince  Henry ;  and  in  this  manner  all 
the  princes  and  princesses  that  were  pre- 
sent, one  after  the  other,  and  according  to 
their  rank,  led  up  the  dance,  making  the 
tour  of  the  hall,  almost  in  the  step  of  the 
Polognese.  The  novelty  of  this  perform- 
ance, and  the  sublime  quality  of  the  per- 
formers, made  it  in  some  degree  agreeable. 
Otherwise  the  extreme  gravity  of  the  dance 
itself,  with  the  continual  round  and  formal 
pace  of  the  dancers,  the  frequent  going  out 
of  the  torches,  and  the  clangour  of  the 
rumpets  that  rent  the  ear,  all  these  I  say 
made  it  too  much  resemble  the  dance  of 
the  Sarmates,  those  ancient  inhabitants  of 
the  prodigious  woods  of  this  country." 

On  the  7th  of  June,  1794,  about  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  fire  broke  out  at 
the  duke  of  York's  palace  at  Oatlands.  It 
began  in  the  kitchen,  and  was  occasioned 
oy  a  beam  which  projected  into  the  chim- 
jtey,  and  communicated  to  the  roof.  His 
royal  highness's  armoury  was  in  that  wing 
of  the  building  where  the  fire  commenced, 


in  which  forty  pounds  of  gunpowder  being 
deposited,  a  number  of  most  curious  war- 
like instruments,  which  his  royal  highness 
had  collected  on  the  continent,  were  de- 
stroyed. Many  of  the  guns  and  other 
weapons  were  presented  from  the  king 
of  Prussia,  and  German  officers  of  dis- 
tinction, and  to  each  piece  was  attached  its 
history.  By  the  seasonable  exertions  of  the 
neighbourhood,  the  flames  were  prevented 
from  spreading  to  the  main  part  of  the 
building.  The  duchess  was  at  Oatlands  at 
the  time,  and  beheld  the  conflagration  from 
her  sleeping  apartment,  in  the  centre  of  the 
mansion,  from  which  the  flames  were  pre- 
vented communicating  by  destroying  a  gate- 
way, over  the  wing  that  adjoined  to  the 
house.  Her  royal  highness  gave  her  orders 
with  perfect  composure,  directed  abundant 
refreshment  to  the  people  who  were  extin- 
guishing the  flames,  and  then  retired  to  the 
rooms  of  the  servants  at  the  stables,  which 
are  considerably  detached  from  the  palace. 
His  majesty  rode  over  from  ^Vindsor-castle 
to  visit  her  royal  highness,  and  staid  with 
her  a  considerable  time. 


On  the  8th  of  April,  1808,  whilst  the 
duke  of  York  was  riding  for  an  airing  along 
the  King's-road  towards  Fulham,  a  drover's 
dog  crossed,  and  barked  in  front  of  the 
horse.  The  animal,  suddenly  rearing,  fell 
backwards,  with  the  duke  under  him  ;  and 
the  horse  rising,  with  the  duke's  foot  in  the 
stirrup,  dragged  him  along,  and  did  him 
further  injury.  When  extricated,  the  duke, 
with  great  cheerfulness,  denied  he  was 
much  hurt,  yet  two  of  his  ribs  were  broken, 
the  back  of  his  head  and  face  contused,  and 
one  of  his  legs  and  arms  much  bruised.  A 
gentleman  in  a  hack  chaise  immediately 
alighted,  and  the  duke  was  conveyed  in  it 
to  York-house,  Piccadilly,  where  his  royal 
highness  was  put  to  bed,  and  in  due  time 
recovered  to  the  performance  of  his  active 
duties. 

On  the  6th  of  August,  1815,  the  duke  of 
York,  on  coming  out  of  a  shower-bath,  at 
Oatlands,  fell,  from  the  slippery  state  of  the 
oilcloth,  and  broke  the  large  bone  of  his 
left  arm,  half  way  between  the  shoulder 
and  the  elbow-joint.  His  royal  highness's 
excellent  constitution  at  that  time  assisted 
the  surgeons,  and  in  a  fortnight  he  age  in 
attended  to  business. 

On  the  llth  of  October,  in  the  same 
year,  his  royal  highness's  library,  at  his 


109 


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110 


office  in  the  Horse-guards  consisting  of  the 
best  military  authors,  and  a  very  extensive 
collection  of  maps,  were  removed  to  his 
new  library  (late  her  majesty's)  in  the 
Green-park.  The  assemblage  is  the  most 
perfect  collection  of  works  on  military 
aflairs  in  the  kingdom. 

It  appears,  from  the  report  of  the  com- 
missioners of  woods,  ^forests,  and  land 
revenues,  in  1816,  that  the  duke  of  York 
purchased  of  the  commissioners  the  follow- 
ing estates  :  1.  The  manor  of  Byfleet  and 
Wey bridge,  with  Byfleet  or  Weybridge- 
park,  and  a  capital  rr-essuage  and  offices, 
and  other  messuages  and  buildings  there. 
2.  The  manor  of  Walton  Leigh,  and  divers 
messuages  and  lands  therein.  3.  A  capital 
messuage  called  Brooklands,  with  offices, 
gardens,  and  several  parcels  of  land,  situat- 
ed at  Weybridge.  4.  A  farm-house,  and 
divers  lands,  called  Brooklands-farm,  at 
Weybridge.  5.  A  messuage  and  lands, 
called  Childs,  near  Weybridge.  6.  Two 
rabbit-warrens  within  the  manor  of  Byfleet 
and  Weybridge.  To  this  property  was  to 
be  added  all  lands  and  premises  allotted  to 
the  preceding  by  virtue  of  any  act  of  enclo- 
sure. The  sale  was  made  to  his  royal 
highness  in  May,  1809,  at  the  price  of 
£74,459.  3». ;  but  the  money  was  permitted 
to  remain  at  the  interest  of  3J  per  cent,  till 
the  10th  of  June.  1815,  when  the  principal 
and  interest  (amounting,  after  the  deduc- 
tion of  property-tax,  and  of  the  rents,  which, 
during  the  interval,  had  been  paid  to  the 
crown,  to  £85, 135.  5s.  9rf.)  were  paid  into 
the  Bank  of  England,  to  the  account  of  the 
commissioners  for  the  new  street.  His 
royal  highness  also  purchased  about  twenty 
acres  of  land  in  Walton,  at  the  price  of 
£1294.  2*.  3rf. 


While  the  duke  was  in  his  last  illness, 
members  on  both  sides  of  the  House  of 
Commons  bore  spontaneous  testimony  to 
liis  royal  highness's  impartial  administration 
of  his  high  office  as  commander-in-chief; 
<and  united  in  one  general  expression,  that 
no  political  distinction  ever  interfered  to 
prevent  the  promotion  of  a  deserving  officer. 

A  statement  in  bishop  Watson's  Me- 
moirs, is  a  tribute  to  his  royal  highness's 
reputation. 

"  On  the  marriage  of  my  son  in  August, 
1805,  I  wrote,"  says  the  bishop,  "  to  the 
duke  of  York,  requesting  his  royal  high- 
ness to  give  him  his  protection.  I  felt  a 
consciousness  of  having,  through  life,  che- 
rished a  warm  attachment  to  the  house  of 


Brunswick,  and  to  those  principles  which 
had  placed  it  on  the  throne,  and  of  having 
on  all  occasions  acted  an  independent  and 
honourable  part  towards  the  government  of 
the  country,  and  I  therefore  thought  myself 
justified  in  concluding  my  letter  in  the  fol- 
lowing terms  : — '  I  know  not  in  what  esti- 
mation your  royal  highness  may  hold  my 
repeated  endeavours,  in  moments  of  dan- 
ger, to  support  the  religion  and  the  consti- 
tution of  the  country;  but  if  I  am  fortunate 
enough  to  have  any  merit  with  you  on  that 
score,  I  earnestly  request  your  protection 
for  my  son.  I  am  a  bad  courtier,  and  know 
little  of  the  manner  of  soliciting  favours 
through  the  intervention  of  others,  but  I 
feel  that  I  shall  never  know  how  to  forget 
them,  when  done  to  myself;  and,  under 
that  consciousness,  I  beg  leave  to  submit 
myself 

'  Your  Royal  Highness's 

'  Most  grateful  servant, 

'  R.  LANDAFF.* 

"  I  received  a  very  obliging  answer  by  the 
return  of  the  post,  and  in  about  two  months 
my  son  was  promoted,  without  purchase, 
from  a  majority  to  a  lieutenant-colonelcy 
in  the  Third  Dragoon  Guards.  After  hav- 
ing experienced,  for  above  twenty-four 
years,  the  neglect  of  his  majesty's  ministers, 
I  received  great  satisfaction  from  this  at- 
tention of  his  son,  and  shall  carry  with  me 
to  my  grave  a  most  grateful  memory  of  his 
goodness.  I  could  not  at  the  time  forbear 
expressing  my  acknowledgment  in  the 
following  letter,  nor  can  I  now  forbear  in- 
serting it  in  these  anecdotes.  The  whole 
transaction  will  do  his  royal  highness  no 
discredit  with  posterity,  and  I  shall  ever 
consider  it  as  an  honourable  testimony  of 
his  approbation  of  my  public  conduct. 

'  Calgarth  Park,  Nov.  9,  1805.' 

'  Do,  my  lord  of  Canterbury, 

But  one  good  turn,  and  he's  your  friend  for  ever.' 

'  Thus  Shakspeare  makes  Henry  VIII. 
speak  of  Cranmer  ;  and  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart,  I  humbly  entreat  your  royal 
highness  to  believe,  that  the  sentiment  is 
as  applicable  to  the  bishop  of  Landaff  as  it 
was  to  Cranmer. 

'  The  bis  dot  qui  cito  dat  has  been  most 
kindly  thought  of  in  this  promotion  of  my 
son ;  and  I  know  not  which  is  most  dear 
to  my  feelings,  the  matter  of  the  obligation, 
or  the  noble  manner  of  its  being  conferred. 
I  sincerely  hope  your  royal  highness  will 
pardon  this  my  intrusion,  in  thus  expressing 
my  most  grateful  acknowledgments  for 
them  both 

'  R.  LANDAFF.'  " 


ill 


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112 


*  Cfcarlesf 


To  the  Editor. 

DEAR  SIR, 

It  is  not  unknown  to  you,  that  about 
sixteen  years  since  I  published  "  Speci- 
mens of  English  Dramatic  Poets,  who 
lived  about  the  Time  of  Shakspeare."  For 
the  scarcer  Plays  I  had  recourse  to  the 
Collection  bequeathed  to  the  British  Mu- 
seum by  Mr.  Garrick.  But  my  time  was 
out  short,  and  my  subsequent  leisure  has 
discovered  in  it  a  treasure  rich  and  ex- 
haustless  beyond  what  I  then  imagined. 
In  it  is  to  be  found  almost  every  production 
in  the  shape  of  a  Play  that  has  appeared  in 
print,  from  the  time  of  the  old  Mysteries 
and  Moralities  to  the  days  of  Crown  and 
D'Urfey.  Imagine  the  luxury  to  one  like 
me,  who,  above  every  other  form  of  Poetry, 
have  ever  preferred  the  Dramatic,  of  sitting 
in  the  princely  apartments,  for  such  they 
are,  of  poor  condemned  Montagu  House, 
which  I  predict  will  not  speedily  be  fol- 
lowed by  a  handsomer,  and  culling  at  will 
the  flower  of  some  thousand  Dramas.  It  is 
like  having  the  range  of  a  Nobleman's  Li- 
brary, with  the  Librarian  to  your  friend. 
Nothing-can  exceed  the  courteousness  and 
attentions  of  the  Gentleman  who  has  the 
chief  direction  of  the  Reading  Rooms  here; 
and  you  have  scarce  to  ask  for  a  volume, 
before  it  is  laid  before  you.  If  the  occa- 
sional Extracts,  which  I  have  been  tempted 
to  bring  away,  may  find  an  appropriate 
place  in  your  Table  Book,  some  of  them 
are  weekly  at  your  service.  By  those  who 
remember  the  "  Specimens,"  these  must  be 
considered  as  mere  after-gleanings,  supple- 
jnentary  to  that  work,  only  comprising  a 
longer  period.  You  must  be  content  with 
sometimes  a  scene,  sometimes  a  song;  a 
speech,  or  passage,  or  a  poetical  image,  as 
they  happen  to  strike  me.  I  read  without 
order  of  time  ;  I  am  a  poor  hand  at  dates  ; 
and  for  any  biography  of  the  Dramatists, 
I  must  refer  to  writers  who  are  more  skil- 
ful in  such  matters.  My  business  is  with 
their  poetry  only.  • 

Your  well-wisher, 

.  C.  LAMB. 
January,  27,  1827. 


<§arnck  paps. 

No.  I. 

[From  "  King  John  and  Matilda,"  a  Tra- 
gedy by  Robert  Davenport,  acted  in 
1651.] 


John,  not  being  able  to  bring  Matilda, 
the  chaste  daughter  of  the  old  Baron  Fitz- 
water,  to  compliance  with  his  wishes, 
causes  her  to  be  poisoned  in  a  nuanery. 

SCENE.    John.  The  Barons :  they  being 
as  yet  ignorant  of  the   murder,  and 
having  just  come  to  composition  with 
the  King  after  tedious  wars.   Matilda' 
hearse  is  brought  in  by  Hubert. 

John.  Hubert,  interpret  this  apparition. 

Hubert.  Behold,  sir, 
A  sad-writ  Tragedy,  so  feelingly 
Languaged,  and  cast ;  with  such  a  crafty  cruelty 
Contrived,  and  acted  ;  that  wild  savages 
Would  weep  to  lay  their  ears  to,  and  (admiring 
To  see  themselves  outdone)  they  would  conceive 
Their  wildness  mildness  to  this  deed,  and  call 
Men  more  than  savage,  themselves  rational. 
And  thou,  Fitzwater,  reflect  upon  thy  name,9 
And  turn  the  Son  of  Tears.    Oh,  forget 
That  Cupid  ever  spent  a  dart  upon  thee  ; 
That  Hymen  ever  coupled  thee;  or  that  ever 
The  hasty,  happy,  willing  messenger 
Told  thee  thou  had'st  a  daughter.     Oh  look  here! 
Look  here,  King  John,  and  with  a  trembling  eye 
Read  your  sad  act,  Matilda's  tragedy. 

Barons.   Matilda ! 

Fitzwater.  By  the  lab' ring  soul  of  a  much-injured 

man, 
It  is  my  child  Matilda! 

Bruce.  Sweet  niece  I 

Leicester.  Chaste  soul  1 

John.  Do  I  stir,  Chester  ? 
Good  Oxford,  do  I  move  ?  stand  I  not  still 
To  watch  when  the  griev'd  friends  of  wrong'd  Matilda 
Will  with  a  thousand  stabs  turn  me  to  dust. 
That  in  a  thousand  prayers  they  might  be  happy  ? 
Will  no  one  do  it?  then  give  a  mourner  room, 
A  man  of  tears.     Oh  immaculate  Matilda, 
These  shed  but  sailing  heat-drops,  misling  showers 
The  faint  dews  of  a  doubtful  April  morning ; 
But  from  mine  eyes  ship-sinking  cataracts, 
Whole  clouds  of  waters,  wealthy  exhalations, 
Shall  fall  into  the  sea  of  my  affliction, 
Till  it  amaze  the  mourners. 

Hubert .  Unmatch'd  Matilda  ; 
Celestial  soldier,  that  kept  a  fort  of  chastity 
'Gainst  all  temptations. 

Fitzwater.  Not  to  be  a  Queen, 
Would  she  break  her  chaste  vow.    Truth  crowns  your 

reed ; 
Uumatch'd  Matilda  was  her  name  indeed. 


*  Fitzwater :  son  of  water.    A  striking  instance,  of 
the  compatibility  of  the  serious  pun  with  the  expression 


gaunt  indeed;"  to  a  long  string  of  conceits,  which  no 
one  has  ever  yet  felt  as  ridiculous.  The  poet  Wither 
thus,  in  a  mournful  review  of  the  declining  estate  of 
his  family,  says  with  deepest  nature : — 

The  rery  name  of  Wither  shows  decay. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


1H 


John.  O  take  into  yout  spirit-piercing  praise 
My  scene  of  sorrow.     I  have  well-clad  woes, 
Pathetic  epithets  to  illustrate  passion. 
And  steal  true  tears  so  sweetly  from  all  these, 
Shall  touch  the  soul,  and  at  once  pierce  and  please. 

[Peruses  the  Motto  and  Emblems  on  the  hearse.  \ 
"  To  Piety  and  Puritv" — and  "  Lillies   mix'd  with 

Roses" — 

How  well  you  have  apparell'd  woe  I  this  Pendant, 
To  Piety  and  Purity  directed, 
Insinuates  a  chaste  soul  in  a  clean  body, 
Virtue's  white  Virgin,  Chastity's  red  Martyr! 
Suffer  me  then  with  this  well-suited  wreath 
To  make  our  griefs  ingenious.    Let  all  be  dumb, 
Whilst  the  king  speaks  her  Epicedium. 

Chester.  His  very  soul  speaks  sorrow. 

Oxford.  And  it  becomes  him  sweetly. 

John.  Hail  Maid  and  Martyr !  lo  on  thy  breast, 
Devotion's  altar,  chaste  Truth's  nest, 
I  offer  (as  my  guilt  imposes) 
Thy  merit's  laurel,  Lillies  and  Roses ; 
Lillies,  intimating  plain 
Thy  immaculate  life,  stuck  with  no  stain ; 
Roses  red  and  sweet,  to  tell 
How  sweet  red  sacrifices  smell. 
Hang  round  then,  as  you  walk  about  this  hearse, 
The  songs  of  holy  hearts,  sweet  virtuous  verse. 

Fitzwater.  Bring  Persian  silks,  to  deck  her  monu- 
ment ; 

John.  Arabian  spices,  quick'ning  by  their  scent; 

Fitzviater.  Numidian  marble,  to  preserve  her  praise, 

John.  Corinthian  ivory,  her  shape  to  praise  : 

Fitzwater.  And  write  in  gold  upon  it,  In  this  br«ast 
Virtue  sate  mistress,  Passion  but  a  guest. 

John.  Virtue  is  sweet ;  and,  since  griefs  bitter  be, 
Strew  her  with  roses,  and  give  rue  to  me. 

Bruce.  My  noble  brother,  I've  lost  a  wife  and  son  ;* 
You  a  sweet  daughter.    Look  on  the  king's  penitenc- ; 
His  promise  for  the  public  peace.    Prefer 
A  public  benefit.f    When  it  shall  please, 
Let  Heaven  question  him.    Let  us  secure 
And  quit  the  land  of  Lewis.J 

Fitzwater.  Do  any  thing  ; 

Do  all  things  that  are  honorable ;  and  the  Great  King 
Make  you  a  good  king,  sir !  and  when  your  soul 
Shall  at  any  time  reflect  upon  your  follies, 
Good  King  John,  weep,  weep  very  heartily  ; 
It  will  become  you  sweetly.     It  your  eyes 
Your  sin  stole  in  ;  there  pay  your  sacrifice. 

John.  Back  unto  Dunmow  Abbey.    There  we'll  pa> 
To  sweet  Matilda's  memory,  and  her  sufferings, 
A  monthly  obsequy,  which  (sweet'ned  by 
The  wealthy  woes  of  a  tear-troubled  eye) 
Shall  by  those  sharp  afflictions  of  my  face 
Court  mercy,  and  make  grief  arrive  at  grace. 


•  Also  cruelly  slain  by  the  poisoning  John. 

t  i.  e.  of  peace;  which  this  monstrous  act  of  John's 
in  this  play  comes  to  counteract,  in  the  same  way  as 
the  discovered  Death  of  Prince  Arthur  is  like  to  break 
the  composition  of  the  King  with  his  Barons  in  Shak- 
upeare's  Play. 

t  The  Dauphin  of  France,  whom  they  had  called  in, 
as  in  Shakspeare's  Play. 


Hong. 

Matilda,  now  go  tane  thy  bed 

In  the  dark  dwellings  of  the  dead ; 

And  rise  in  the  great  waking  day 

Sweet  as  incence,  fresh  as  May. 
Rest  there,  chaste  soul,  fix'd  in  thy  proper  sphere, 
Amongst  Heaven's  fair  ones ;  all  are  fair  ones  there. 
Rest  there,  chaste  soul,  whilst  we  here  troubled  say  : 
Time  gives  us  griefs,  Death  takes  our  joys  away. 

This  scene  has  much  passion  and  poetry 
in  it,  if  I  mistake  not.  The  last  words  of 
Fitzwater  are  an  instance  of  noble  tempe- 
rament ;  but  to  understand  him,  the  cha- 
racter throughout  of  this  mad,  merry,  feel- 
ing, insensible-seeming  lord,  should  be 
read.  That  the  venomous  John  could  have 
even  counterfeited  repentance  so  well,  is 
out  of  nature;  but  supposing  the  possi- 
bility, nothing  is  truer  than  the  way  in 
which  it  is  managed.  These  old  play- 
wrights invested  their  bad  characters  with 
notions  of  good,  which  could  by  no  pos 
sibility  have  coexisted  with  their  actions 
Without  a  soul  of  goodness  in  himself,  how 
could  Shakspeare's  Richard  the  Third  havo 
lit  upon  those  sweet  phrases  and  induce- 
ments by  which  he  attempts  to  win  over 
the  dowager  queen  to  let  him  wed  her 
daughter.  It  is  not  Nature's  nature,  but 
Imagination's  substituted  nature,  which 
does  almost  as  well  in  a  fiction. 
(To  be  continued.} 


literature. 

GLANCES  AT  NEW  BOOKS  ON  MY  TABLE. 

"  CONSTABLE'S  MISCELLANY  of  original 
and  selected  Publications'  is  proposed  to 
consist  of  various  works  on  important  and 
popular  subjects,  with  the  view  of  supply- 
ing certain  chasms  in  the  existing  stock  of 
useful  knowledge  ;  and  each  author  or  sub- 
ject is  to  be  kept  separate,  so  as  to  enable 
purchasers  to  acquire  all  the  numbers,  or 
volumes,  of  each  book,  distinct  from  the 
others.  The  undertaking  commenced  in 
the  first  week  of  the  new  year,  1 827,  with  the 
first  number  of  Captain  Basil  Hall's  voyage 
to  Loo-Choo,  and  the  complete  volume  o 
that  work  was  published  at  the  same  time. 


"  EARLY  METRICAL  TALKS,  including  the 
History  of  Sir  Egeir,  Sir  Gryme,  and  Sir 
Gray-Steill."  Edinb.  1826.  sm.  8vo.  9«. 
(175  copies  printed.)  The  most  remarkable 
poem  in  this  elegant  volume  is  the  rare 
Scottish  romance,  named  in  the  title-page, 
which,  according  to  its  present  editor, 
"  would  seem,  along  with  the  poems  of  sir 


115 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


116 


David  Lindsay,  and  the  histories  of  Robert 
the  Bruce,  and  of  sir  William  Wallace,  to 
have  formed  the  standard  productions  of 
the  vernacular  literature  of  the  country." 
In  proof  of  this  he  adduces  several  au- 
thorities ;  "  and  yet  it  is  remarkable  enough, 
that  every  ancient  copy  should  have  hitherto 
eluded  the  most  active  and  unremitting 
research."  The  earliest  printed  edition  is 
presumed  to  have  issued  fiom  the  press  of 
Thomas  Bassandyne,  "  the  first  printer  of 
the  sacred  Scriptures  in  Scotland."  An 
inventory  of  his  goods,  dated  1 8th  October, 
1577,  contains  an  item  of  three  hundred 
"  Gray  Steillis/'  valued  at  the  "  pece  virf. 
summa  £vn.  x.  o."  Its  editor  would 
willingly  give  the  sum-total  of  these  three 
hundred  copies  for  "  one  of  the  said  Gray- 
Steillis,  were  he  so  fortunate  as  to  meet 
with  it."  He  instances  subsequent  editions, 
but  the  only  copy  he  could  discover  was 
printed  at  Aberdeen  in  1711,  by  James 
Nicol,  printer  to  the  town  and  university  ; 
and  respecting  this,  which,  though  of  so 
recent  date,  is  at  present  unique,  "  the 
editor's  best  acknowledgments  are  due  to 
his  friend,  Mr.  Douce,  for  the  kind  manner 
in  which  he  favoured  him  with  the  loan  of 
the  volume,  for  the  purpose  of  repub- 
lication."  On  the  17th  of  April,  1497,  when 
James  IV.  was  at  Stirling  :  there  is  an  entry 
in  the  treasurer's  accounts,  "  Item,  that 
samyn  day  to  twa  Sachelaris  that  sang  Gray 
Steil  to  the  King,  ix«."  In  MS.  collec- 
tions made  at  Aberdeen  in  1627,  called  a 
"  Booke  for  the  Lute,"  by  Robert  Gordon, 
is  the  air  of  "  Gray-Steel ;"  and  a  satirical 
poem  in  Scottish  rhyme  on  the  marquis  of 
Argyle,  printed  in  1686,  is  "appointed  to 
be  sung  according  to  the  tune  of  old  Gray 
Steel.''  These  evidences  that  the  poem 
was  sung,  manifest  its  popularity.  There 
are  conjectures  as  to  who  the  person  de- 
nominated Sir  Gray  Steel  really  was,  but 
the  point  is  undetermined. 

In  this  volume  there  are  thirteen  poems. 
1.  Sir  Gray-Steill  above  spoken  of.  2. 
The  Tales  of  the  Priests  of  Peblis,  wherein 
the  three  priests  of  Peebles,  having  met  to 
regale  on  St.  Bride's  day,  agree,  each  in 
turn,  to  relate  a  story.  3.  Ane  Godlie 
Dreame,  by  lady  Culross.  4.  History  of 
a  Lord  and  his  three  Sons,  much  resembling 
the  story  of  Fortunatus.  5.  The  Ring  of 
the  Roy  Robert,  the  printed  copies  of 
which  have  been  modernized  and  cor- 
rupted. 6.  King  Estmere,  an  old  romantic 
tale.  7.  The  Battle  of  Harlaic,  considered 
by  its  present  editor  "  as  the  original  of 
rather  a  numerous  class  of  Scotish  histo- 
rical ballads."  8.  Lichtouns  Dreme, 


printed  for  the  first  time  from  the  Ban- 
natyne  MS.  1568.  9.  The  Murning 
Maiden,  a  poem  "  written  in  the  Augustan 
age  of  Scotish  poetry/'  10.  The  Epistill 
of  the  Hermeit  of  Alareit,  a  satire  on  the 
Grey  Friers,  by  Alexander  earl  of  Glencairn. 
11.  Roswall  and  Lillian,  a  "  pleasant  his- 
tory," (chanted  even  of  late  in  Edinburgh,) 
from  the  earliest  edition  discovered,  printed 
in  1663,  of  which  the  only  copy  known  is 
in  the  Advocates'  Library,  from  the  Rox- 
burghe  sale.  12.  Poem  by  Glassinberry, 
a  name  for  the  first  time  introduced  into 
the  list  of  early  Scotish  poets,  and  the 
poem  itself  printed  from  "  Gray's  MS." 
13.  Sir  John  Barleycorn,  from  a  stall-copy 
printed  in  1781,  with  a  few  corrections, 
concerning  which  piece  it  is  remarked,  that 
Burns's  version  "  cannot  be  said  to  have 
greatly  improved  it."  There  is  a  vignette 
to  this  ballad,  "  designed  and  etched  by 
the  ingenious  young  artist,  W.  Geikie,"  of 
Edinburgh,  from  whence  I  take  the  liberty 
to  cut  a  figure,  not  for  the  purpose  of  convey- 
ing an  idea  of  this  "  Allan-a-Maut,'1  who 
is  surrounded  with  like  "  good"  company 
by  Mr.  Geikie's  meritorious  pencil,  but  to 
extend  the  knowledge  of  Mr.  Geikie's  name, 
who  is  perfectly  unknown  to  me,  except 
through  the  single  print  1  refer  to,  which 
compels  me  to  express  warm  admiration  of 
his  correct  feeling,  and  assured  talent. 


Besides  Mr.  Geikie's  beautiful  etching, 
there  is  a  frontispiece  by  W.  H.  Liiars 
from  a  design  by  Mr.  C.  Kirkpatrick 
Sharpe,  and  a  portrait  of  Alexander  earl  oi 
Eglintoune  1670,  also  by  Mr.  Lizars,  from 
a  curiously  illuminated  parchment  in  tne 
possession  of  the  present  earl. 


117 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


113 


SAYING    NOT    MEANING. 

BY  WILLIAM  BASIL  WAKE. 

For  the  Table  Book. 

Two  gentlemen  their  appetite  had  fed, 

When,  opening  his  toothpick-case,  one  said, 

"It  was  not  until  lately  that  I  knew 

That  anchovies  on  terrS  firma  grew." 

"  Grew  I"  cried  the  other,  "  yes,  they  grow,  indeed. 

Like  other  fish,  but  not  upon  the  land; 
You  might  as  well  say  grapes  grow  on  a  reed. 
Or  in  the  Strand  1" 

"  Why,  sir,"  retura'd  the  irritated  other, 

"  My  brother, 
When  at  Calcutta, 
Beheld  them  bonsl  fide  growing ; 

He  wouldn't  utter 
A  lie  for  love  or  money,  sir ;  so  in 
This  matter  you  are  thoroughly  mistaken." 
"  Nonsense,  sir  1  nonsense  1  I  can  give  no  credit 
To  the  assertion — none  e'er  saw  or  road  it ; 

Your  brother,  like  his  evidence,  should  be  shaken." 

"  Be  shaken,  sir !  let  me  observe,  yon  are 

Perverse — in  short — " 
"  Sir,"  said  the  other,  sucking  his  cigar, 

And  then  his  port — 
"  If  you  will  say  impossibles  are  true, 

Yon  may  affirm  just  any  thing  you  please — 
That  swans  are  quadrupeds,  and  lions  blue, 

And  elephants  inhabit  Stilton  cheese  I 
Only  you  must  not  force  me  to  believe 
What's  propagated  merely  to  deceive." 

"  Then  you  force  me  to  say,  sir,  you're  a  fool," 

Return'd  the  bragger. 
Language  like  this  no  man  can  suffer  cool ; 

It  made  the  listener  stagger ; 
So,  thunder-stricken,  he  at  once  replied, 

"  The  traveller  lied 
Who  had  the  impudence  to  tell  it  you." 
"  Zounds  1  then  d'ye  mean  to  swear  before  my  face 
That  anchovies  don't  grow  like  cloves  and  mace  ?" 

"  I  do !" 

Disputants  often  after  hot  debates 
Leave  the  contention  as  they  found  it — bone, 

And  take  to  duelling,  or  thumping  tttet  ; 
Thinking,  by  strength  of  artery,  to  atone 

For  strength  of  argument ;  and  he  who  winces 

From  force  of  words,  with  force  of  arms  convinces ! 

With  pistols,  powder,  bullets,  surgeons,  lint, 
Seconds,  and  smelling-bottles,  and  foreboding, 
Our  friends  advanced ;  and  now  portentous  loading 

(Their  hearts  already  loaded)  serv'd  to  show 

It  might  be  better  they  shook  hands— but  no ; 

When  each  opines  himself,  though  frighten'd,  right, 
Each  is,  in  courtesy,  oblig'd  to  fight ! 

And  they  did  fight :  from  six  full  measured  paces 
The  unbeliever  pull'd  his  trigger  first; 

And  fearing,  from  the  braggart's  ugly  faces. 
The  whizzing  lead  had  whizz'd  its  very  worst. 


Ran  np,  and  with  a  duelistic  tear, 

(His  ire  evanishing  like  morning  vaponra,.) 
vound  him  possess'd  of  one  remaining  ear, 
Who,  in  a  manner  sudden  and  uncouth, 
Had  given,  not  lent,  the- other  ear  to  truth  : 
For,  while  the  surgeon  was  applying  lint, 
He,  wriggling,  cried — "  The  deuce  is  in't — 
Sir  1  I  meant — capert  1" 


Cfjararttrsf. 

THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN. 

Our  old  gentleman,  in  order  to  be  ex- 
clusively himself,  must  be  either  a  widower 
or  a  bachelor.  Suppose  the  former.  We 
do  not  mention  his  precise  age,  which  would 
be  invidious; — nor  whether  he  wears  his 
own  hair  or  a  wig  ;  which  would  be  want- 
ing in  universality.  If  a  wig,  it  is  a  com- 
promise between  the  more  modern  scratch 
and  the  departed  glory  of  the  toupee.  If 
his  own  hair,  it  is  white,  in  spite  of  his 
favourite  grandson,  who  used  to  get  on  the 
chair  behind  him,  and  pull  the  silver  hairs 
out,  ten  years  ago.  If  he  is  bald  at  top, 
the  hair-dresser,  hovering  and  breathing 
about  him  like  a  second  youth,  takes  care 
to  give  the  bald  place  as  much  powder  as 
the  covered ;  in  order  that  he  may  convey, 
to  the  sensorium  within,  a  pleasing  indis- 
tinctness of  idea  respecting  the  exact  limits 
of  skin  and  hair.  He  is  very  clean  and 
neat ;  and  in  warm  weather  is  proud  of 
opening  his  waistcoat  half  way  down,  and 
letting  so  much  of  his  frill  be  seen ;  in. 
order  to  show  his  hardiness  as  well  as  taste. 
His  watch  and  shirt-buttons  are  of  the 
best ;  and  he  does  not  care  if  he  has  two 
rings  on  a  finger.  If  his  watch  ever  failed 
him  at  the  club  or  coffee-house,  he  would 
take  a  walk  every  day  to  the  nearest  clock 
of  good  character,  purely  to  keep  it  right. 
He  has  a  cane  at  home,  but  seldom  uses  it, 
on  finding  it  out  of  fashion  with  his  elderly 
juniors.  He  has  a  small  cocked  hat  for 
gala  days,  which  he  lifts  higher  from  his 
head  than  the  round  one,  when  made  a  bow 
to.  In  his  pockets  are  two  handkerchiefs, 
(one  for  the  neck  at  night-time,)  his  spec- 
tacles, and  his  pocket-book.  The  pocket- 
book,  among  other  things,  contains  a  re- 
ceipt for  a  cough,  and  some  verses  cut  out 
of  an  odd  sheet  of  an  old  magazine,  on  the 
lovely  duchess  of  A.,  beginning — 

When  beauteous  Mira  walks  the  plain. 

He  intends  this  for  a  common-place  book 
which  he  keeps,  consisting  of  passages  in 
verse  and  prose  cut  out  of  newspapers  and 
magazines,  and  pasted  in  columns ;  some 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


120 


of  thetn  rather  gay.  His  principal  other 
books  are  Shakspeare's  Plays  and  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost ;  the  Spectator,  the  History 
of  England ;  the  works  of  Lady  M.  W. 
Montague,  Pope,  and  Churchill ;  Middle- 
ton's  Geogiaphy,  the  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine ;  Sir  John  Sinclair  on  Longevity ; 
several  plays  with  portraits  in  character; 
Account  of  Elizabeth  Canning,  Memoirs 
of  George  Ann  Bellamy,  Poetical  Amuse- 
ments at  Bath-Easton,  Blair's  Works,  Ele- 
gant Extracts;  Junius  as  originally  pub- 
lished ;  a  few  pamphlets  on  the  American 
War  and  Lord  George  Gordon,  &c.  and 
one  on  the  French  Revolution.  In  his 
sitting  rooms  are  some  engravings  from 
Hogarth  and  Sir  Joshua;  an  engraved  por- 
trait of  the  Marquis  of  Granby ;  ditto  of 
M.  le  Comte  de  Grasse  surrendering  to 
Admiral  Rodney  ;  a  humorous  piece  after 
Penny  ;  and  a  portrait  of  himself,  painted 
by  Sir  Joshua.  His  wife's  portrait  is  in  his 
chamber,  looking  upon  his  bed.  She  is  a 
little  girl,  stepping  forward  with  a  smile 
and  a  pointed  toe,  as  if  going  to  dance. 
He  lost  her  when  she  was  sixty. 

The  Old  Gentleman  is  an  early  riser, 
because  he  intends  to  live  at  least  twenty 
years  longer.  He  continues  to  take  tea  for 
breakfast,  in  spite  of  what  is  said  against 
its  nervous  effects ;  having  been  satisfied 
on  that  point  some  years  ago  by  Dr.  John- 
son's criticism  on  Hanway,  and  a  great 
liking  for  tea  previously.  His  china  cups 
and  saucers  have  been  broken  since  his 
wife's  death,  all  but  one,  which  is  religi- 
ously kept  for  his  use.  He  passes  liis 
mort  ing  in  walking  or  riding,  looking  in  at 
auctions,  looking  after  his  India  bonds  or 
some  such  money  securities,  furthering 
some  subscription  set  on  foot  by  his  excel- 
lent friend  sir  John,  or  cheapening  a  new 
old  print  for  his  portfolio.  He  also  hears 
of  the  newspapers  ;  not  eating  to  see  them 
till  after  dinner  at  the  coffee-house.  He 
may  also  cheapen  a  fish  or  so ;  the  fish- 
monger soliciting  his  doubting  eye  as  he 
passes,  with  a  profound  bow  of  recognition. 
He  eats  a  pear  before  dinner. 

His  dinner  at  the  coffee-house  is  served 
up  to  him  at  the  accustomed  hour,  in  the 
old  accustomed  way,  and  by  the  accustomed 
waiter.  If  William  did  not  bring  it,  the 
fish  would  be  sure  to  be  stale,  and  the  flesh 
new.  He  eats  no  tart;  or  if  he  ventures 
on  a  little,  takes  cheese  with  it.  You  might 
as  soon  attempt  to  persuade  him  out  of  his 
senses,  as  that  cheese  is  not  good  for  diges- 
tion. He  takes  port ;  and  if  he  has  drank 
mote  than  usual,  and  in  a  more  private 
place,  may  be  induced  by  some  respectful 


inquiries  respecting  the  old  style  of  music, 
to  sing  a  song  composed  by  Mr.  Oswald  or 
Mr.  Lampe,  such  as — 

Chloe,  by  that  borrowed  kiss, 
or 

Come,  gentle  god  of  soft  repose ; 

or  his  wife's  favourite  ballad,  beginning — 

At  Upton  on  the  Hill 
There  lived  a  happy  pair. 

Of  course,  no  such  exploit  can  take  place 
in  the  coffee-room ;  but  he  will  canvass  the 
theory  of  that  matter  there  with  you,  or 
discuss  the  weather,  or  the  markets,  or  the 
theatres,  or  the  merits  of  "  my  lord  North" 
or  "  my  lord  Rockingham  ;''  for  he  rarely 
says  simply,  lord ;  it  is  generally  "  my 
lord,"  trippingly  and  genteelly  off  the 
tongue.  If  alone  after  dinner,  his  great 
delight  is  the  newspaper;  which  he  pre- 
pares to  read  by  wiping  his  spectacles, 
carefully  adjusting  them  on  his  eyes,  and 
drawing  the  candle  close  to  him,  so  as  to 
stand  sideways  betwixt  his  ocular  aim  and 
the  small  type.  He  then  holds  the  paper  at 
arm's  length,  and  dropping  his  eyelids  half 
down  and  his  mouth  half  open,  takes  cog- 
nizance of  the  day's  information.  If  he 
leaves  off,  it  is  only  when  the  door  is  open- 
ed by  a  new  comer,  or  when  he  suspects 
somebody  is  over-anxious  to  get  the  paper 
out  of  his  hand.  On  these  occasions,  he 
gives  an  important  hem  !  or  so ;  and  re- 
sumes. 

In  the  evening,  our  Old  Gentleman  is 
fond  of  going  to  the  theatre,  or  of  having  a 
game  of  cards.  If  he  enjoy  the  latter  at 
his  own  house  or  lodgings,  he  likes  to  play 
with  some  friends  whom  he  has  known  for 
many  years ;  but  an  elderly  stranger  may 
be  introduced,  if  quiet  and  scientific;  and 
the  privilege  is  extended  to  younger  men 
of  letters ;  who,  if  ill  players,  are  good 
losers.  Not  that  he  is  a  miser ;  but  to  win 
money  at  cards  is  like  proving  his  victory 
by  getting  the  baggage ;  and  to  win  of  a 
younger  man  is  a  substitute  for  his  not 
being  able  to  beat  him  at  rackets.  He 
breaks  up  early,  whether  at  home  or 
abroad. 

At  the  theatre,  he  Jikes  a  front  row  in  the 
pit.  He  comes  early,  if  he  can  do  so  with- 
out getting  into  a  squeeze,  and  sits  patiently 
waiting  for  the  drawing  up  of  the  curtain, 
with  his  hands  placidly  lying  one  over  the 
other  on  the  top  of  his  stick.  He  gene- 
rously admires  some  of  the  best  performers, 
but  thinks  them  far  inferior  to  Garrick, 
Woodward,  and  Clive.  During  splendid 
scenes,  he  is  anxious  that  the  little  bov 
should  see. 


121 


T11E  TABLE  BOOK. 


He  has  been  induced  to  look  in  atVaux- 
hall  again,  but  likes  it  still  less  than  he  did 
years  back,  and  cannot  bear  it  in  comparison 
•with  Ranelagh.  He  thinks  every  thing 
looks  poor,  flaring,  and  jaded.  "  Ah !" 
says  he,  with  a  sort  of  triumphant  sigh, 
"  Ilanelagh  was  a  noble  place  !  Such  taste, 
such  elegance,  such  beauty  !  There  was  the 
duchess  of  A.  the  finest  woman  in  England, 
sir;  and  Mrs.  L.,  a  mighty  fine  creature; 
and  lady  Susan  what's  her  name,  that  had 
that  unfortunate  affair  with  sir  Charles. 
Sir,  they  came  swimming  by  you  like  the 
swans." 

The  Old  Gentleman  is  very  particular  in 
having  his  slippers  ready  for  him  at  the  fire, 
when  he  comes  home.  He  is  also  extremely 
choice  in  his  snuff,  and  delights  to  get  a 
fresh  box-full  at  Gliddon's,  in  King-street,  in 
his  way  to  the  theatre.  His  box  is  a  curiosity 
from  India.  He  calls  favourite  young  ladies 
by  their  Christian  names,  however  slightly 
acquainted  with  them  ;  and  has  a  privilege 
also  of  saluting  all  brides,  mothers,  and 
indeed  every  species  of  lady  on  the  least 
holiday  occasion.  If  the  husband  for  in- 
stance has  met  with  a  piece  of  luck,  he 
instantly  moves  forward,  and  gravely  kisses 
the  wife  on  the  cheek.  The  wife  then  says, 
"  My  niece,  sir,  from  the  country ;"  and  he 
kisses  the  niece.  The  niece,  seeing  her 
cousin  biting  her  lips  at  the  joke,  says, 
"  My  cousin  Harriet,  sir;"  and  he  kisses 
the  cousin.  He  never  recollects  such  wea- 
ther, except  during  the  great  frost,  or  when 
he  rode  down  with  Jack  Skrimshire  to  New- 
market. He  grows  young  again  in  his  little 
grand-children,  especially  the  one  which  lie 
thinks  most  like  himself;  which  is  the 
handsomest.  Yet  he  likes  best  perhaps  the 
one  most  resembling  his  wife;  and  will  sit 
with  him  on  his  lap,  holding  his  hand  in 
silence,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  together. 
He  plays  most  tricks  with  the  former,  and 
makes  him  sneeze.  He  asks  little  boys  in 
general  who  was  the  father  of  Zebedee's 
children.  If  his  grandsons  are  at  scho  1, 
he  often  goes  to  see  them ;  and  makes  them 
blush  by  telling  the  master  or  the  upper- 
scholars,  that  they  are  fine  boys,  and  of  a 
precocious  genius.  He  is  much  struck 
when  an  old  acquaintance  dies,  but  adds 
that  he  lived  too  fast;  and  thst  poor  Bob 
was  a  sad  dog  in  his  youth;  "  a  very  sad 
dog,  sir,  mightily  set  upon  a  short  life  and 
a  merry  one.'' 

When  he  gets  very  old  indeed,  he  will 
sit  for  whole  evenings,  and  say  little  or 
nothing ;  but  informs  you,  that  there  is 
Mrs.  Jones  (the  housekeeper),  —  "  She'll 
alk." — Indicator. 


A  HAPPY  MEETING. 

And  doth  not  a  meeting  like  this  make  amends 

For  all  the  long  years  I've  been  wand'ring  away. 
To  see  thus  around  me  my  youth's  early  friends, 

As  smiling  and  kind  as  in  that  happy  day  ! 
Though  haply  o'er  some  of  your  brows,  as  o'er  mine. 

The  snow-fall  of  time  may  be  stealing — what  then 
Like  Alps  in  the  sunset,  thus  lighted  by  wine, 

We'll  wear  the  gay  tinge  of  youth's  roses  again. 

What  soften'd  remembrances  come  o'er  the  heart, 

In  gazing  on  those  we've  been  lost  to  so  long  ! 
The  sorrows,  the  joys,  of  which  once  they  were  part 

Still  round  them,  like  visions  of  yesterday,  throng 
As  letters  some  hand  hath  invisibly  traced, 

When  held  to  the  flame  will  steal  out  on  the  sight, 
So  many  a  feeling,  that  long  seein'd  effaced, 

The  warmtli  of  a  meeting  like  this  brings  to  light. 

And  thus,  as  in  memory's  bark,  we  shall  glide 

To  visit  the  scenes  of  our  boyhood  anew, 
Tho"  oft  we  may  see,  looking  down  on  the  tide, 

The  wreck  of  full  many  a  hope  shining  through—- 
Yet still,  as  in  fancy  we  point  to  the  flowers 

That  once  made  a  garden  of  all  the  g^y  shore, 
Deceiv'd  for  a  moment,  we'll  think  them  still  ours, 

And  breath  the  fresh  air  of  life's  morning  once  more 

So  brief  our  existence,  a  glimpse,  at  the  most, 

Is  all  we  can  have  of  the  few  we  hold  dear ; 
And  oft  even  joy  is  unheeded  and  lost, 

For  want  of  some  heart  that  could  echo  it  near. 
Ah  I  well  may  we  hope,  when  this  short  life  is  gone, 

To  meet  in  some  world  of  more  permanent  bliss,' 
For  a  smile,  or  a  grasp  of  the  hand,  hast'ning  on, 

Is  all  we  enjoy  of  each  other  in  this. 

But  come — the  more  rare  such  delights  to  the  heart, 

The  more  we  should  welcome,  aud  bless  them  (he 

more — 
They're  ours  when  we  maet — they're  lost  when  we  part. 

Like  birds  that  bring  summer,  and  fly  when  'tis  o'er, 
Thus  circling  the  cup,  hand  in  hand,  ere  we  drink. 

Let  Sympathy  pledge  us,  thro*  pleasure  thro'  pain. 
That  fast  as  a  feeling  but  touches  one  link, 

Her  magic  shall  send  it  direct  through  the  chain. 


LINES  TO  HIS  COUSIN 

ON    THE    NEW    YEAR, 

BY  A  WESTMINSTER  BOY. 

Time  rolls  away !  another  year 

Has  rolled  off  with  him  ;  hence  'tis  clear 

His  lordship  keeps  his  carriage  • 
A  single  man,  no  doubt ; — and  thus 
Enjoys  himself  without  the  fuss 

And  great  expense  of  marriage. 

Hh  whsd  still  rolls  (and  like  the  met 
Which  Horace  mentions)  still  for  ever 
folvitur  tt  volrctur. 


123 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


124 


In  rain  you  run  against  himf  place 
iomr  fleetest  filly  in  the  race,— 
Here'i  ten  to  one  he'll  beat  her. 

Of  all  he  sees,  he  takes  a  tithe. 

With  that  tremendous  sweeping  scy.he, 

Which  he  keeps  always  going ; 
While  every  step  he  takes,  alas  1 
Too  plainly  proves  tii&tfiesh  is  grass, 

When  he  sets  out  a  mowing. 

And  though  his  hungry  ravenous  maw 

Is  crammed  with  food,  both  dress'd  and  raw. 

Pll  wager  any  betting, 
His  appetite  has  ever  been 
Just  'ike  his  scythe,  sharp-set  and  keen, 

Which  never  wanted  whetting. 

Could  you  but  see  the  mighty  treat 
Prepared,  when  he  sits  down  to  eat 

His  breakfast  or  his  dinner, — ah, 
Not  vegetable— flesh,— alone, 
But  timber,  houses,  iron,  stone, 

He  eats  the  very  china. 

When  maidens  pray  that  he  will  spare 
Their  teeth,  complexion,  or  their  hair, 

Alas  I  he'll  never  hear  'era ; 
Grey  locks  and  wrinkles  hourly  show. 
What  Ovid  told  us  years  ago, 

Ut  Temptu  edax  rervm  / 

In  vain,  my  dearest  girl,  you  choose 
(Your  face  to  wash)  Olympic  dews ; 

In  vain  you  paint  or  rouge  it ; 
Hrfll  play  such  havoc  with  your  you'h, 
That  ten  years  hence  you'll  say  wilh  truth 

Ah  Edward  \-Tempiafugit  I 

The  glass  he  carries  in  his  hand 
Has  ruin  in  each  grain  of  sand ; 

But  what  I  most  deplore  is, 
He  breaks  the  links  of  friendship's  chain, 
And  barters  youthful  love  for  gain  : 

OA,  Tempora  I  oh.  Mores  I 

One  sole  exception  you  shall  find, 
(  Unius  generis  of  its  kind,) 

Wherever  fate  may  steer  us ; 
Tho'  wide  his  universal  range, 
Time  has  no  power  the  heart  to  change 

Of  your  AMICUS  VIRUS. 

Bath  Herald. 


GERMAN  UNIVERSITIES. 

Germany,  which  embraces  a  population 
of  thirty-six  millions  of  people,  has  twenty- 
two  universities.  The  following  table  con- 
tains their  names  according  to  the  order  of 
their  foundation,  and  the  number  of  pro- 
fessors and  students : 


Universities. 

When 
banded. 

lumber  of 
'rofessors. 

Number 
of 

tudents. 

Prague  
Vienna  

1348 
1365 

55 

77 

1449 
lb'88 

Heidelberg    .  . 
Warsbourg.  .  . 
Leipsig   .... 
Rostock  .... 
Fribourg.  .  .  . 
Griefswald.  .  . 
Bale  

i368 
1403 
1409 
1419 
1450 
1456 
1460 

55 
31 
81 
34 
35 
30 
24 

626 
660 
1384 
201 
556 
227 
214 

Tubingen  .  .  . 
Marbourg  .  .  . 
Kosnisberg.  .  . 
Jena     ... 

1477 
1527 
1544 
1558 

44 
38 
23 
51 

827 
304 
303 
432 

Giessen  .  .  .  . 
Kiel  

1607 
1665 

39 

26 

371 
238 

Halle    

1694 

64 

1119 

Breslau   .  .  . 
Goettengen.  . 
Erlangen.  .  . 
Landshut   .  . 
Berlin  .... 
Bonn.  . 

1702 
1734 
1743 
1803 
1810 
1818 

49 
89 

34 
48 
86 
42 

710 
1545 
498 
623 
1245 
526 

Of  this  number  six  belong  to  Prussia,  three 
to  Bavaria,  two  to  the  Austrian  States,  two 
to  the  Grand  Duchy  of  Baden,  two  to  the 
Electorate  of  Hesse-Cassel,  and  one  to  each 
of  the  following  states — Saxony,  Wurtem- 
berg,     Denmark,     Hanover,     the    Grand 
Duchies  of  Mecklenbergh-Schweren  and  of 
Saxe- Weimar,  and  Switzerland.     The  total 
number  of  professors  is  1055,  embracing 
not  only  the  ordinary  and  extraordinary  pro- 
fessors, but  also  the  private  lecturers,  whose 
courses  of  reading  are  announced  in  the 
half-yearly   programmes.      Catholic   Ger- 
many, which  reckons  nineteen  millions  of 
inhabitants,  has  only  six  universities;  while 
Protestant  Germany,  for  seventeen  millions 
of  inhabitants,  has  seventeen.     Of  the  stu- 
dpnts  there  are  149  for  every  250,000  in 
the  Protestant  states,  while  there  are  only 
68  for  the  same  number  in  the  Catholic 
states.     It  must,  however,  be  mentioned, 
that  this  estimate  does  not  take  in  those 
Catholic  ecclesiastics  who  do  not  pursue 
their  studies    in  the    universities,  but    in 
private    seminaries. — The    universities    of 
Paderborn  and  Munster,  both  belonging  to 
Prussia,  and  which  had  only  two  faculties, 
those   of  theology   and    philosophy,   were 
suppressed;    the   first   in   1818,    and   the 
second  in  1819;  but  that  of  Munster  has 
been  reestablished,  with  the  three  faculties 
of  theology,  philosophy,  and  medicine. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


Collep  Cftfeer'0  pmmgest  Daughter. 

Last  ef  her  sire  is  dotage — she  was  used 

By  him,  as  children  use  a  fav'rite  toy  ; 

Indulg'd,  neglected,  fondled,  and  abng'd. 

As  quick  affection  of  capricious  joy. 
Or  sudden  humour  of  dislike  dictated : 

Thoughtlessly  rear'd,  she  led  a  thoughtless  life  ; 
And  she  so  well  beloved  became  most  hated : 
A  helpless  mother,  and  a  wife  unblest, 

She  pass'd  precocious  womanhood  in  strife  ; 
Or,  in  strange  hiding-places,  without  rest ; 

Or,  wand'ring  in  disquietude  for  bread : 
Her  father's  curse — himself  first  cause  of  all 
That  caused  his  ban — sunk  her  in  deeper  thrall. 

Stifling  her  heart,  till  sorrow  and  herself  were  dead. 


'THE  LIFE  OF  MRS.  CHARLOTTE  CHARKE, 
youngest  daughter  of  Colley  Gibber,  Esq. 
written  by  herself,"  is  a  curious  narrative 
of  remarkable  vicissitudes.  She  dedicates 
it  to  nerself,  and  aptly  concludes  her  dedi- 
cation by  sayinsr,  "  Permit  me,  madam,  to 
subscribe  myself,  for  the  future,  what  I 
rught  to  have  been  some  years  ago,  your 

Vor.  I.— 5. 


real   friend,   and  humble   servant,  CHAR- 
LOTTE CHARKE." 

In  the  "  Introduction  "  to  the  recent  re- 
print of  this  singular  work,  it  is  well 
observed,  that  "  her  Life  will  serve  to  show 
what  very  strange  creatures  may  exist,  and 
the  endless  diversity  of  habits,  tastes,  and 
'inclinations,  which  may  spring  up  spon- 


127 


TIJE  TABLE  BOOK. 


128 


taneously,  hice  weeds,  in  the  hot-bed  of 
corrupt  civilization."  She  was  born  when 
Mrs.  Gibber  was  forty-five  years  old,  and 
when  both  her  father  and  mother  had 
ceased  to  expect  an  addition  to  their  family : 
the  result  was  that  Charlotte  Cibber  was  a 
spoiled  child.  She  married  Mr.  Richard 
Charke,  an  eminent  violin  player,  of  disso- 
lute habits  ;  and,  after  a  course  of  levities, 
consequent  upon  the  early  recklessness  of 
her  parents,  she  was  repudiated  by  her 
father.  When  she  wrote  her  life,  she  was 
in  great  penury  :  it  was  published  in  eight 
numbers,  at  three-pence  each.  In  the  last, 
which  appeared  on  the  19th  of  April,  1755, 
she  feelingly  deplores  the  failure  of  her 
attempts  to  obtain  forgiveness  of  her  father, 
and  says,  "  I  cannot  recollect  any  crime  I 
have  been  guilty  of  that  is  unpardonable." 
After  intimating  a  design  to  open  an  orato- 
rical academy,  for  the  instruction  of  persons 
going  on  the  stage,  she  mentions  her  inten- 
tion to  publish  "  Mr.  Dumont's  history, 
the  first  number  of  which  will  shortly  make 
its  appearance."  This  was  a  novel  she  was 
then  writing,  which  a  bookseller  treated 
with  her  for,  in  company  with  Mr.  Samuel 
Whyte  of  Dublin,  who  thus  describes  her 
distressed  situation : — 

'  Cibber  the  elder  had  a  daughter  named 
Charlotte,  who  also  took  to  the  stage  ;  her 
subsequent  life  was  one  continued  series 
of  misfortune,  afflictions,  and  distress,  which 
she  sometimes  contrived  a  little  to  alleviate 
by  the  productions  of  her  pen.  About  the 
vear  1 755,  she  had  worked  up  a  novel  for 
the  press,  which  the  writer  accompanied 
his  friend  the  bookseller  to  hear  read;  she 
was  at  this  time  a  widow,  having  been 
married  to  one  Charke  a  musician,  long 
since  dead.  Her  habitation  was  a  wretched 
thatched  hovel,  situated  on  the  way  to 
Islington  in  the  purlieus  of  Clerkenwell 
Bridewell,  not  very  distant  from  the  New 
River  Head,  where  at  that  time  it  was  usual 
for  the  scavengers  to  leave  the  cleansings 
of  the  streets,  &c.  The  night  preceding 
a  heavy  rain  had  fallen,  which  rendered 
this  extraordinary  seat  of  the  muses  almost 
inaccessible,  so  that  in  our  approach  we 
got  our  white  stockings  enveloped  with  mud 
up  to  the  very  calves,  which  furnished  an 
appearance  much  in  the  present  fashionable 
style  of  half-boots.  We  knocked  at  the 
door,  (not  attempting  to  pnl\  the  latch 
string,)  which  was  opened  by  a  tall,  meagre, 
ragged  figure,  with  a  blue  apron,  indicating, 
what  else  we  might  have  doubted,  the 
feminine  gender, — a  perfect  model  foi  the 
copper  captain's  tattered  landlady;  that 
deplorable  exhibition  of  the  fair  sex,  in  the 


comedy  of  Rule-a-Wife.  She  with  a  torpid 
voice  and  hungry  smile  desired  us  to 
walk  in.  The  first  object  that  presented 
itself  was  a  dresser,  clean,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, and  furnished  with  three  or  four 
coarse  delf  plates,  two  brown  platters,  and 
underneath  an  earthen  pipki»  and  a  black 
pitcher  with  a  snip  out  of  it.  To  the  right 
we  perceived  and  bowed  to  the  mistress  of 
the  mansion  sitting  on  a  maimed  chair 
under  the  mantle-piece,  by  a  fire,  merely 
sufficient  to  put  us  in  mind  of  starving.  On 
one  hob  sat  a  monkey,  which  by  way  of 
welcome  chattered  at  our  going  in  ;  on  the 
other  a  tabby  cat,  of  melancholy  aspect ! 
and  at  our  author's  feet  on  the  flounce  of 
her  dingy  petticoat  reclined  a  dog,  almost 
a  skeleton  !  he  raised  his  shagged  head,  and, 
eagerly  staring  with  his  bleared  eyes,  sa- 
luted us  with  a  snarl.  '  Have  done,  Fidele  ! 
these  are  friends.'  The  tone  of  her  voice 
was  not  harsh ;  it  had  something  in  it 
humbled  and  disconsolate;  a  mingled  effort 
of  authority  and  pleasure. — Poor  soul !  few 
were  her  visitors  of  that  description — no 
wonder  the  creature  barked  !. — A  magpie 
perched  on  the  top  ring  of  her  chair,  not  an 
uncomely  ornament !  and  on  her  lap  was 
placed  a  mutilated  pair  of  bellows,  the  pipe 
was  gone,  an  advantage  in  their  present 
office,  they  served  as  a  succedaneum  for  a 
writing-desk,  on  which  lay  displayed  her 
hopes  and  treasure,  the  manuscript  of  her 
novel.  Her  ink-stand  was  a  broken  tea- 
cup, the  pen  worn  to  a  stump ;  she  had 
but  one  I  a  rough  deal  board  with  three 
hobbling  supporters  was  brought  for  our 
convenience,  on  which,  without  farther 
ceremony,  we  contrived  to  sit  down  and 
entered  upon  business : — the  work  was  read, 
remarks  made,  alterations  agreed  to,  and 
thirty  guineas  demanded  for  the  copy.  The 
squalid  handmaiden,  who  had  been  an  at- 
tentive listener,  stretched  forward  her  tawny 
length  of  neck  with  an  eye  of  anxious  ex- 
pectation ! — The  bookseller  offered  five ! — 
Our  authoress  did  not  appear  hurt ;  disap- 
pointments had  rendered  her  mind  callous; 
however,  some  altercation  ensued.  This 
was  the  writer's  first  initiation  into  the 
mysteries  of  bibliopolism  and  the  state  of 
authorcraft.  He,  seeing  both  sides  perti- 
nacious, at  length  interposed,  and  at  his 
instance  the  wary  haberdasher  of  literature 
doubled  his  first  proposal,  with  this  saving 
proviso,  that  his  friend  present  would  pay 
a  moiety  and  run  one  half  the  risk  ;  which 
was  agreed  to.  Thus  matters  were  accom- 
modated, seemingly  to  the  satisfaction  of 
all  parties ;  the  lady's  original  stipulation 
of  fifty  copies  for  herself  being  previously 


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130 


acceded  to.  Such  is  the  story  of  the  once- 
admired  daughter  of  Colley  Gibber,  Poet 
Laureate  and  patentee  of  Drury-lane,  who 
was  born  in  affluence  and  educated  with 
care  and  tenderness,  her  servants  in  livery, 
and  a  splendid  equipage  at  her  command, 
with  swarms  of  time-serving  sycophants 
officiously  buzzing  in  her  train ;  yet,  un- 
mindful of  her  advantages  and  improvident 
in  her  pursuits,  she  finished  the  career  of 
her  miserable  existence  on  a  dunghill."* 

Mr.  Whyte's  account  of  the  "  read- 
ing the  manuscript,"  a  subject  worthy 
of  Wilkie's  pencil,  is  designed  to  be 
illustrated  by  the  engraving  at  the  head 
of  this  article.  Of  Mrs.  Charke,  after  that 
interview,  nothing  further  is  known,  except 
that  she  kept  a  public-house,  at  Islington, 
and  is  said  to  have  died  on  the  6th  of 
April,  1760.f  Her  brother  Theophilus  was 
wrecked,  and  perished  on  his  way  to  Dublin, 
in  October,  1758;  her  father  died  on  the 
1 2th  of  December,  in  the  year  preceding. 
Her  singular  "  Narrative "  is  printed  ver- 
batim in  the  seventh  volume  of  "  Auto- 
biography," with  the  life  of  the  late  "  Mary 
Robinson,"  who  was  also  an  actress,  and 
also  wrote  her  own  "  Memoirs." 


AN  INEDITED  BALLAD. 
To  the  Editor. 

Dear  Sir, — A  friend  of  mine,  who  resided 
for  some  years  on  the  borders,  used  to 
amuse  himself  by  collecting  old  ballads, 
printed  on  halfpenny  sheets,  and  hawked 
up  and  down  by  itinerant  minstrels.  In 
his  common-place  book  I  found  one,  en- 
titled "  The  Outlandish  Knight,"  evidently, 
from  the  style,  of  considerable  antiquity, 
which  appears  to  have  escaped  the  notice 
of  Percy,  and  other  collectors.  Since  then 
I  have  met  with  a  printed  one,  from  the 
popular  press  of  Mr.  Pitts,  the  six-yards- 
for-a-penny  song-publisher,  who  informs 
me  that  he  has  printed  it  "  ever  since  he 
was  a  printer,  and  that  Mr.  Marshall,  his 
predecessor,  printed  it  before  him."  The 
ballad  has  not  improved  by  circulating 
amongst  Mr.  Pitts's  friends ;  for  the  heroine, 
who  has  no  name  given  her  in  my  friend's 
copy,  is  in  Mr.  Pitts's  called  "  Polly ;"  and 
there  are  expressions  contra  bonos  mores. 
These  I  have  expunged  ;  and,  to  render  the 
ballad  more  complete,  added  a  few  stanzas, 
wherein  I  have  endeavoured  to  preserve 


*  Whyte's    Collection  of    Poems,  second   edition . 
Dublin,  1792. 
t  B.og.  Diam. 


the  simplicity  of  the  original,  of  which  I 
doubt  if  a  correct  copy  could  now  be  ob- 
tained. As  it  is,  it  is  at  the  service  of  your 
Table  Book. 

The  hero  of  the  ballad  appears  to  be 
of  somewhat  the  same  class  as  the  hero  of 
the  German  ballad,  the  "Water  King," 
and  in  some  particulars  resembles  the 
ballad  of  the  "  Overcourteous  Knight,"  in 
Percy's  Reliques. 

I  am,  dear  sir,  &c. 

Grange-road,  Bermondsey,  Jan.  8,  1827. 
THE  OUTLANDISH  KNIGHT. 


-"  Six  go  true. 


The  seventh  askew." 

Der  Freischvtx  Travettie. 

eAn  outlandish  knight  from  the  north  lands  came, 

And  he  came  a  wooing  to  me ; 
He  told  me  he'd  take  me  unto  the  north  lands, 
And  I  should  his  fair  bride  be. 

A  broad,  broad  shield  did  this  strange  knight  wield. 

Whereon  did  the  red-cross  shine, 
Yet  never,  I  ween,  had  that  strange  knight  been 

In  the  fields  of  Palestine. 

And  out  and  spake  this  strange  knight. 

This  knight  of  the  north  countrie, 
O,  maiden  fair,  with  the  raven  hair, 

Thou  shall  at  my  bidding  be. 

Thy  sire  he  is  from  home,  ladye, 

For  he  hath  a  journey  gone, 
And  his  shaggy  blood-hound  is  sleeping  sound, 

Beside  the  postern  stone. 

Go,  bring  me  some  of  thy  lather's  gold, 

And  some  of  thy  mother's  fee. 
And  steeds  twain  of  the  best,  in  the  stalls  that  rest 

Where  they  stand  thirty  and  three. 


She  mounted  her  on  her  milk-white  steed, 

And  he  on  a  dapple  grey, 
And  they  forward  did  ride,  till  they  reach'd  the  sea-tide, 

Three  hours  before  it  was  day. 

Then  out  and  spake  this  strange  knight. 

This  knight  of  the  north  countrie, 
O,  maiden  fair,  with  the  raven  hair, 

Do  thou  at  my  bidding  be. 

Alight  thee,  maid,  from  thy  milk-white  steed, 

And  deliver  it  unto  me ; 
Six  maids  have  I  drown'd,  where  the  billows  »oniui, 

An  I  the  peventh  one  thou  shall  be. 

lint  fi  rut  pa  0  off  thy  kirtle  fine, 

And  delu  e  i  it  unto  me ; 
Thy  kit  tie  ol  green  is  too  rich,  I  weeo. 

]'o  rot  it  thr  salt,  salt  sea. 


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132 


Pull  off,  pull  off  thy  silken  shoon, 

And  deliver  them  unto  me  ; 
Melhinks  that  they  are  too  fine  and  gay 

To  rot  in  the  salt,  salt  sea. 

Pull  off,  pull  off  thy  bonnie  green  plaid, 

That  floats  in  the  breeze  so  free  ; 
It  is  woven  fine  with  the  silver  twine, 

And  comely  it  is  to  see. 

If  I  must  pnll  off  my  bonnie  green  plaid, 

O  turn  thy  back  to  me  ; 
And  gaze  on  the  sun  which  has  just  begun 

To  peer  o'er  the  salt,  salt  sea. 

He  tnrn'd  his  back  on  the  damu>elle 

And  gaz'd  on  the  bright  sunbeam- 
She  grasp'd  him  tight  with  her  arms  so  white, 

And  plung'd  him  into  the  stream. 

Lie  there,  sir  knight,  thou  false-hearted  wight, 

Lie  there  instead  of  me ; 
Six  damsels  fair  thou  hast  drown'd  there. 

But  the  seventh  has  drowned  thee. 

That  ocean  wave  was  the  false  one's  grave, 

For  he  sunk  right  hastily; 
Though  with  dying  voice  faint,  he  pray'd  to  his  saint, 

And  utter'd  an  Are  Marie. 

No  mass  was  said  for  that  false  knight  dead, 

No  convent  bell  did  toll ; 
But  he  went  to  his  rest,  unshriv'd  and  noblest — 

Heaven's  mercy  on  his  soul ! 


She  mounted  her  on  her  dapple-grey  steed, 

And  led  the  steed  milk-white ; 
She  rod*  till  she  reach'd  her  father's  hall. 

Three  hours  before  the  night. 

The  parrot,  hung  in  the  lattice  so  high, 

To  the  lady  then  did  say, 
Some  ruffian,  I  fear,  has  led  thee  from  home, 

Per  thou  hast  been  long  away. 

Do  not  prattle,  my  pretty  bird, 

Do  not  tell  tales  of  me ; 
And  thy  cage  shall  be  made  of  the  glittering  gold, 

Instead  of  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  earl  as  he  sat  in  his  turret  high, 

On  hearing  the  parrot  did  say, 
What  ails  thee,  what  ails  thee,  my  pretty  bird  ? 

Thou  hast  prattled  the  live-long  day. 

Well  may  I  prattle,  the  parrot  replied, 

And  call,  brave  earl,  on  thee  ; 
For  the  cat  has  well  nigh  reach'd  the  lattice  so  high, 

And  ker  eyes  are  fix'd  on  me. 

Well  tnrn'd,  well  tnrn'd,  my  pretty  bird, 

Well  turn'd,  well  tnrn'd  for  me ; 
Thy  cage  shall  be  made  of  the  glittering  gold, 

instead  of  the  greenwood  tree. 


PRIDE  AND  GOOD-WILL. 

It  is  related  of  a  certain  class  of  French 
nobility,  who,  in  their  winter  residence  at 
Aix,  were  objects  of  dislike  from  their 
arrogance  and  self-importance,  that  they 
were  beloved  and  esteemed  for  their  kind- 
ne.»>s  and  benevolence  by  the  dependants 
around  their  chateaus  in  the  country.  Many 
instances  might  be  cited  to  show  that  the 
respect  paid  them  was  no  more  than  they 
deserved ;  and  one  is  particularly  strik- 
ing:— 

A  seigneur,  when  he  resided  in  the 
country,  used  to  distribute  among  the  wo- 
men and  children,  and  the  old  men  who 
were  unable  to  work  in  the  field,  raw  wool, 
and  flax,  which  they  spun  and  wove  into 
cloth  or  stuff  at  their  pleasure  :  every  week 
they  were  paid  wages  according  to  the 
quantity  of  work  done,  and  had  a  fresh 
supply  of  raw  materials  whenever  it  was 
wanted.  At  the  end  of  the  year,  a  general 
feast  was  given  by  the  seigneur  to  the 
whole  village,  when  all  who  had  been 
occupied  in  spinning  and  weaving  brought 
in  their  work,  and  a  piize  of  a  hundred 
livres  was  given  to  each  person  who  had 
spun  the  best  skein,  and  woven  the  best 
web.  They  had  a  dinner  in  a  field  adjoin- 
ing to  the  chateau,  at  which  the  seigneur 
himself  presided,  and  on  each  side  of  him 
sat  those  who  had  gained  the  prizes.  The 
evening  was  concluded  with  a  dance.  The 
victors,  besides  the  hundred  livres,  had 
their  work  given  them :  the  rest  were  allow- 
ed to  purchase  theirs  at  a  very  moderate 
price,  and  the  money  resulting  from  it  was 
laid  by  to  distribute  among  any  persons  of 
the  village  who  wanted  relief  on  account  of 
sickness,  or  who  had  suffered  from  unavoid- 
able accident,  either  in  their  persons  or 
property.  At  the  death  of  this  excellent 
man,  who  unfortunately  left  no  immediate 
heirs  to  follow  his  good  example,  the  vil- 
lage presented  a  scene  of  the  bitterest 
lamentation  and  distress  :  the  peasants  as- 
sembled round  the  body,  and  it  was  almost 
forced  away  from  them  for  interment. 
They  brought  their  shuttles,  their  distaffs, 
their  skeins  of  thread  and  worsted,  their 
pieces  of  linen  and  stuff,  and  strewed  them 
upon  his  grave,  saying  that  now  they  had 
lost  their  patron  and  benefactor,  they  could 
no  longer  be  of  use  to  them.  If  this  man 
felt  the  pride  of  conscious  superiority,  it 
was  scarcely  to  be  condemned  when  accom- 
panied with  such  laudable  exertions  to 
render  himself,  through  that  superiority,  a 
benefactor  to  society.* 


•  Mis*  Plumtree. 


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134 


<§arriclt 

No.  II. 

[From  the  "  Parliament  of  Bees,"  a 
Masque,  by  John  Day,  printed  1607. 
Whether  this  singular  production,  in 
which  the  Characters  are  all  Bees,  was 
ever  acted,  I  have  no  information  to 
determine.  It  is  at  least  as  capable  of 
representation,  as  we  can  conceive  the 
"  Birds "  of  Aristophanes  to  have 
been.] 

Ulania,  a  female  Bee,  confesses  her  pas- 
sion for  Meletus,  who  loves  Arethusa. 


not  a  village  Fly,  nor  meadow  Bee, 


That  trafficks  daily  on  the  neighbour  plain, 

But  will  report,  how  all  the  Winged  Train 

Have  sued  to  me  for  Love  ;  when  we  have  flown 

In  swarms  out  to  discover  fields  new  blown. 

Happy  was  he  could  find  the  forward'st  tree. 

And  cull  the  choicest  blossoms  out  for  me  ; 

Of  all  their  labours  they  allow'd  me  some 

And  (like  my  champions)  mann'd  me  out,  and  home : 

Yet  loved  I  none  of  them.     Philon,  a  Bee 

Well-skill'd  in  verse  and  amorous  poetry. 

As  we  have  sate  at  work,  both  of  one  Rose,* 

Has  hnmm'd  sweet  Canzons,  both  in  verse  and  prose, 

Which  I  ne'er  minded.    Astrophel,  a  Bee 

(Although  not  so  poetical  as  he) 

Yet  in  his  full  invention  quick  and  ripe, 

In  summer  evenings,  on  his  well-tuned  pipe, 

Upon  a  woodbine  blossom  in  the  sun, 

(Our  hive  being  clean-swept,  and  our  day's  work  doas), 

Would  play  me  twenty  several  tunes  ;  yet  I 

Nor  minded  Astrophel,  nor  his  melody. 

Then  there's  Amniter,  for  whose  love  fair  Leade 

(That  pretty  Bee)  flies  up  and  down  the  mead 

With  rivers  in  her  eyes  ;  without  deserving 

Sent  me  trim  Acorn  bowls  of  his  own  carving, 

To  drink  May  dews  and  mead  in.     Yet  none  of  these, 

My  hive-born  Playfellows  and  fellow  Bees, 

Could  I  affect,  until  this  strange  Bee  came  ; 

And  him  I  love  with  such  an  ardent  flame, 

Discretion  cannot  quench. — 

He  labours  and  toils, 
•Extracts  more  honey  out  of  barren  soils 
Than  twenty  lazy  Drones.     I  have  heard  my  Father, 
Steward  of  the  Hive,  profess  that  he  had  rather 
Ix>se  half  the  Swarm  than  him.    If  a  Bee,  poor  or  weak, 
Grows  faint  on  his  way,  or  by  misfortune  break 
A  wing  or  leg  against  a  twig ;  alive, 
Or  dead,  he'll  bring  into  the  Master's  Hive 
Him  and  his  burthen.     But  the  other  day, 
On  the  next  plain  there  grew  a  fatal  fray 

*  Prettily  pilfered  from  the  sweet  passage  in  the 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  where  Helena  recounts  to 
Hermia  their  school-days'  friendship: 

We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  Gods, 
Created  with  our  needles  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion. 


Betwixt  the  Wasps  and  us  ;  the  wind  grew  high. 

And  a  rough  storm  raged  so  impetuously, 

Our  Bees  could  scarce  keep  wing ;  then  fell  such  rain, 

It  made  our  Colony  forsake  the  plain, 

And  fly  to  garrison  :  yet  still  He  stood, 

And  'gainst  the  whole  swarm  made  his  party  good  ; 

And  at  each  blow  he  gave,  cried  out  His  Vow, 

His  Vow,  and  Arethusa  ! — On  each  bough 

And  tender  blossom  he  engraves  her  name 

With  his  sharp  sting.    To  Arethusa's  fame 

He  consecrates  his  actions ;  all  his  worth 

Is  only  spent  to  character  her  forth. 

On  damask  roses,  and  the  leaves  of  pines, 

I  have  seen  him  write  such  amorous  moving  lines 

In  Arethusa's  praise,  as  my  poor  heart 

Has,  when  I  read  them,  envied  her  desert ; 

And  wept  and  sigh'd  to  think  that  he  should  be 

To  her  so  constant,  yet  not  pity  me. 


Porrex,  Vice  Roy  of  Bees  under  King 
Oberon,  describes  his  large  prerogative. 
T»  Us  (who,  warranted  by  Oberon's  love, 
Write  Ourself  Master  Bee~),  both  field  and  grove, 
Garden  and  orchard,  lawns  and  flowery  meads, 
(Where  the  amorous  wind  plays  with  the  golden  heads 
Of  wanton  cowslips,  daisies  in  their  prime, 
Sun-loving  marigolds  ;  the  blossom'd  thyme, 
The  blue-vein'd  violets  and  the  damask  rose ; 
The  stately  lily,  Mistress  of  all  those)  ; 
Are  allow'd  and  giv'n,  by  Oberon's  free  areed. 
Pasture  for  me,  and  all  my  swarms  to  feed. 


—  the  doings, 


The  births,  the  wars,  the  wooings, 
of  these  pretty  little  winged  creatures 
are  with  continued  liveliness  portrayed 
throughout  the  whole  of  this  curious 
old  Drama,  in  words  which  Bees  would 
talk  with,  could  they  talk;  the  very  air 
seems  replete  with  humming  and  buzzing 
melodies,  while  we  read  them.  Surely 
Bees  were  never  so  be-rhymed  before. 

C.  L. 


Siograpftiral  ^lemorantra. 

JOHN  SCOT,  A  FASTING  FANATIC. 

In  the  year  1539,  there,  lived  in  Scotland 
one  John  Scot,  no  way  commended  for  his 
learning,  for  he  had  none,  nor  for  his  good 
qualities,  which  were  as  few.  This  man, 
being  overthrown  in  a  suit  of  law,  and 
knowing  himself  unable  to  pay  that  wherein 
he  was  adjudged,  took  sanctuary  in  the 
abbey  of  Holyrood-hoxise;  where,  out  of 
discontent,  he  abstained  from  all  meat  and 
drink,  by  the  space  of  thirty  or  forty  days 
together. 

Fame   having   spread   this   abroad,   the 


135 


f  ABLE  BOOK. 


136 


king  would  have  it  put  to  trial,  and  to  that 
effect  shut  him  up  in  a  private  room  within 
the  castle  of  Edinburgh,  whereunto  no 
man  had  access.  He  caused  a  little  water 
and  bread  to  be  set  by  him,  which  he  was 
found  not  to  have  diminished  in  the  end  of 
thirty  days  and  two.  Upon  this  he  was 
dismissed,  and,  after  a  short  time,  he  went 
to  Rome,  where  he  gave  the  like  proof  of 
his  fasting  to  pope  Clement  VII.;  from 
whence  he  went  to  Venice,  carrying  with 
him  a  testimony  of  his  long  fasting  under 
the  pope's  seal :  and  there  also  he  gave  the 
like  proof  thereof.  After  long  time,  return- 
ing into  England,  he  went  up  into  the 
pulpit  in  St.  Paul's  Church-yard,  where  he 
gave  forth  many  speeches  against  the 
divorce  of  king  Henry  VIII.  from  his  queen 
Katherine,  inveighing  bitterly  against  him 
for  his  defection  from  the  see  of  Rome ; 
whereupon  he  was  thrust  into  prison,  where 
he  continued  fasting  for  the  space  of  fifty 
days  :  what  his  end  was  I  read  not. — Spots- 
wood,  fyc. 

HART  THE  ASTROLOGER. 
There  lived  in  Houndsditch,  about  the 
year  1632,  one  Alexander  Hart,  who  had 
been  a  soldier  formerly,  a  comely  old  man, 
of  good  aspect,  he  professed  questionary 
astrology  and  a  little  of  physic ;  his  greatest 
skill  was  to  elect  young  gentlemen  fit  times 
to  play  at  dice,  that  they  might  win  or  get 
money.  Lilly  relates  that  "  he  went  unto 
him  for  resolutions  for  three  questions  at 
several  times,  and  he  erred  in  every  one." 
He  says,  that  to  speak  soberly  of  him  he 
was  but  a  cheat,  as  appeared  suddenly 
after;  for  a  rustical  fellow  of  the  city, 
desirous  of  knowledge,  contracted  with 
Hart,  to  assist  for  a  conference  with  a 
spirit,  and  paid  him  twenty  pounds  of  thirty 
pounds  the  contract.  At  last,  after  many 
delays,  and  no  spirit  appearing,  nor  money 
returned,  the  young  man  indicted  him  for  a 
cheat  at  the  Old  Bailey  in  London.  The 
jury  fcund  the  bill,  and  at  the  hearing  of 
the  cause  this  jest  happened  :  some  of  the 
bench  inquired  what  Hart  did  ?  "  He  sat 
like  an  alderman  in  his  gown,"  quoth  the 
fellow ;  at  which  the  court  fell  into  a  laugh- 
ter, most  of  the  court  being  aldermen.  He 
was  to  have  been  set  upon  the  pillory  for 
this  cheat;  but  John  Taylor  the  water 
poet  being  his  great  friend,  got  the  lord 
chief  justice  Richardson  to  bail  him,  ere  he 
stood  upon  the  pillory,  and  so  Hart  fled 
presently  into  Holland,  where  he  ended  his 
days.* 

•  Aut'biogiaph)-.  vol.  ii    Lilly':-  Life. 


REV.  THOMAS  CCOKE. 


The  verses  at  the  end  of  the  following 
letter  may  excuse  the  insertion  of  a  query, 
which  would  otherwise  be  out  of  place  in  a 
publication  not  designed  to  be  a  channel 
of  inquiry. 

To  the  Editor. 

Sir, — I  should  feel  much  obliged,  if  the 
Table  Book  can  supply  some  account  of  a 
clergyman  of  the  name  of  Thomas  Cooke, 
who,  it  is  supposed,  resided  in  Shropshire, 
and  was  the  author  of  a  very  beautiful 
poem,  in  folio,  (published  by  subscription, 
about  ninety  years  since,)  entitled  "  The 
Immortality  of  the  Soul."  I  have  a  very 
imperfect  copy  of  this  work,  and  am  de 
sirous  of  ascertaining,  from  any  of  your 
multifarious  readers,  whether  or  not  the 
poem  ever  became  public,  and  where  it  is 
probable  I  could  obtain  a  glimpse  of  a  per- 
fect impression.  Mine  has  no  title-page, 
and  about  one  moiety  of  the  work  has 
been  destroyed  by  the  sacrilegious  hands  of 
some  worthless  animal  on  two  legs ! 

The  list  of  subscribers  plainly  proves 
that  Mr.  Cooke  must  have  been  a  man  of 
good  family,  and  exalted  conections.  On 
one  of  the  blank  leaves  in  my  copy,  the 
following  lines  appear,  .written  by  Mr. 
Cooke  himself;  and,  considering  the  tram- 
mels by  which  he  was  confined,  I  think  the 
verses  are  not  without  merit ;  at  any  rate, 
the  subject  of  them  appears  to  have  been  a 
beautiful  creature. 

By  giving  this  article  a  place  in  the 
Table  Book,  you  will  much  oblige 

Your  subscriber  and  admirer, 

G.  J.  D. 
Islington-green. 

AN  ACKOSTIC 

On   a    most   beautiful    and   accomplished 
young  Lady.     London,  1748. 

M  eekness — good-humour— each  transcendent  grace-. 

I  s  seen  conspicuous  on  thy  joyous  face ; 

S  weet's  the  carnation  to  the  rambling  bee, 

S  o  art  thou.  CHARLOTTE  !  always  sweet  to  me ! 

C  an  aught  compare  successfully  with  those 
H  igh  beauties  which  thy  countenance  compose, 
A  11  doubly  heighten'd  by  that  gentle  mind, 
R  enown'd  on  earth,  and  prais'd  by  ev'ry  wind  ? 
L  ov'd  object  1  no — then  let  it  be  thy  care 
O  f  fawning  friends,  at  all  times,  to  beware — 
T  o  shun  this  world's  delusions  and  disguise, 
T  he  knave's  soft  speeches,  and  the  flatt'rer's  iiei» 
E  steeming  virtue,  and  diecacdmg  vice! 


137 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


G  o  where  I  may,  howe'er  remote  the  clime, 

W   here'er  my  feet  may  stray,  thy  charms  sublime, 

I   llustrious  maid  !  approv'd  and  prais'd  by  all, 

ike  some  enchantment  shall  my  soul  enthrall— 
L  ight  ev'ry  path  —  illuminate  my  mind  — 
I  nspire  my  pen  with  sentiments  refin'd  — 
A  »d  teach  my  tongue  on  this  fond  pray'r  to  dwell, 
••  M  ay  Heav'n  preserve  the  maid  it  loves  so  well  I" 

THOMAS  COOKE. 


CURIOUS  PLAY  BILL. 

The  following  remarkable  theatrical  an- 
nouncefnent  is  a  mixed  appeal  of  vanity 
and  poverty  to  the  taste  and  feelings  of  the 
inhabitants  of  a  town  in  Sussex. 
(Copy.) 

At  the  old  theatre  in  East  Grinstead,  on 
Saturday,  May,  1758,  will  be  represented 
(by  particular  desire,  and  for  the  benefit  of 
Mrs.  P.)  the  deep  and  affecting  Tragedy 
of  Theodosius,  or  the  Force  of  Love,  with 
magnificent  scenes,  dresses,  &c. 

Varanes,  by  Mr.  P.,  who  will  strive,  as 
far  as  possible,  to  support  the  character  of 
this  fiery  Persian  Prince,  in  which  he-  was 
so  much  admired  and  applauded  at  Hast- 
ings, Arundel,  Petworth,  Midworth,  Lewes, 
&c. 

Theodosius,  by  a  young  gentleman  from 
the  University  of  Oxford,  who  never  ap- 
peared on  any  stage. 

Athenais,  by  Mrs.  P.  Though  her  pre- 
sent condition  will  not  permit  her  to  wait 
on  gentlemen  and  ladies  out  of  the  town 
with  tickets,  she  hopes,  as  on  former  occa- 
sions, for  their  liberality  and  support. 

Nothing1  in  Italy  can  exceed  the  altar,  in 
the  first  scene  of  the  play.  Nevertheless, 
should  any  of  the  Nobility  or  Gentry  wish 
to  see  it  ornamented  with  flowers,  the 
bearer  will  bring  away  as  many  as  they 
choose  to  favour  him  with. 

As  the  coronation  of  Athenais,  to  be  in- 
troduced in  the  fifth  act,  contains  a  number 
of  personages,  more  than  sufficient  to  fill 
all  the  dressing-rooms,  &c.,  it  is  hoped  no 
gentlemen  and  ladies  will  be  offended  at 
being  refused  admission  behind  the  scenes. 

N.  B.  The  great  yard  dog,  that  made 
so  much  noise  on  Thursday  night,  during 
the  last  act  of  King  Richard  the  Third, 
will  be  sent  to  a  neighbour's  over  the  way; 
and  on  account  of  the  prodigious  demand 
for  places,  part  of  the  stable  will  be  laid 
into  the  boxes  on  one  side,  and  the  granary 
be  open  for  the.  same  purpose  on  the  other. 
Vivat  Rex* 

•  JBoaden's  Life  of  Mrs.  SidJons. 


IT'S    NEVER    TOO    LATE    TO    HEND 

At  Chester,  in  the  beginning  of  the  year 
1790,  a  reputable  farmer,  on  the  evening  of 
a  market-day,  called  at  the  shop  of  Mr. 
Poole,  bookseller,  and,  desiring  to  speak 
with  him  at  the  door,  put  a  shilling  into 
his  hand,  telling  him,  "  he  had  owed  it  to 
him  many  years."  The  latter  asked,  for 
what  ?  To  which  the  farmer  replied,  that 
"  When  a  boy,  in  buying  a  book-almanac 
at  his  shop,  he  had  stolen  another — the  re- 
flection of  which  had  frequently  given  him 
much  uneasiness."  If  any  one  who  sees 
this  ever  wronged  his  neighbour,  let  him  be 
encouraged  by  the  courage  of  the  farmer  of 
Chester,  to  make  reparation  in  like  manner, 
and  so  make  clean  his  conscience. 


CONSCIENCE. 

-There  is  no  power  in  holy  men, 


Nor  charm  in  prayer — nor  purifying  form 
Of  penitence — nor  outward  look — nor  fast — 
Nor  agony — nor,  greater  tlian  all  these, 
The  innate  tortures  of  that  deep  despair, 
Which  is  remorse  without  the  fear  of  hell. 
But  all  in  all  sufficient  to  itself 
Would  make  a  hell  of  heaven — can  exorcise 
From  out  the  unbounded  spirit,  tie  quick  sense 
Of  its  own  sins,  wrongs,  sufferance,  and  revenge 
Upon  itself ;  there  is  no  future  pang 
Can  deal  that  justice  on  the  self-condemn'd 
He  deals  on  his  own  soul.  Byrun. 


EPITAPH  BY  DR.  LOWTH,  late  bishop  of 
London,  on  a  monument  in  the  church  of 
Cudesden,  Oxfordshire,  to  the  memory  of 
his  daughter,  translated  from  the  Latin  : — 

Dear  as  thou  didst  in  modest  worth  excel, 
More  dear  than  in  a  daughter's  name — farewell  I 
Farewell,  dear  Mary — but  the  hour  is  nigh 
When,  if  I'm  worthy,  we  shall  meet  on  high  : 
Then  shall  I  say,  triumphant  from  tbe  tomb, 
"  Come,  to  thy  father's  arms,  dear  Mary,  come  I" 


INSCRIPTION 

From  the  book  at  Iligi,  in  Switzerland. 

Nine  weary  up-hill  miles  we  sped 

The  setting  sun  to  see ; 
Sulky  and  grim  he  went  to  bed. 

Sulky  and  grim  went  we. 

Seven  sleepless  hours  we  past,  and  then, 

The  rising  sun  to  see, 
Sulky  and  grim  we  rose  again. 

Sulky  and  grim  rose  he. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


Antiquarian  $a!I,  ALIAS  Wlttl  mttVbt4o, 


A  goose-herd  in  the  fen-lands;  next,  he 

Be-doctor'd  Norfolk  cows;  much  vext,  he 

Tnrn'd  bookseller,  an-1  poetaster, 

And  was  a  tolerable  master 

Of  title-pages,  but  his  rhymes 

Were  shocking,  at  the  best  of  times. 

However,  he  was  very  bo  ujt, 

And  now,  poor  fellav,  he  is--"  »em  ett." 


For  the  Table  Book. 

WILLIAM  HALL,  or  as  he  used  to  style 
himself,  "Antiquarian  Hall,"  "  Will.  Will- 
be-so,"  and  «  Low-Fen-Bill-Hall,"  or,  as  .ie 
was  more  generally  termed  by  the  public 
"Old  Hall,"  died  at  Lynn,  in  Norfolk,  on 
the  24th  of  .January,  1825.  From  some 
curious  autobiographical  sketches  in  rhyme 
published  by  himself,  in  the  decline  of  life,' 
it  appears  that  he  was  born  on  June  1,  O  8. 
1748,  at  Willow  Booth,  a  small  island  in 
the  fens  of  Lincolnshire,  near  Heckin°-ton 
Ease,  in  the  parish  of  South  Kyme. 

"  Kyme,  God  knows, 

Where  no  corn  grows, 

Nothing  but  a  little  hay  ; 
And  the  water  comes, 

And  takes  it  all  away." 

His  ancestors  on  the  father's  side  were 
«ll  "  fen  slodgers,"  having  lived  there  for 
many  generations ;  his  mother  was 

"  a  half  Yorkshire 

The  other  half  was  Heckington, 
Valirar  a  ulace  as  and  one.'* 


When  about  four)ears  old,  he  narrowly 
escaped  drowning ;  for,  in  his  own  words, 
he 


— —  "  overstretching  took  a  slip, 
And  popp'd  beneath  a  merchant's  ship  ;* 
No  sou]  at  hand  but  me  and  mother; 
Nor  could  I  call  for  one  or  other." 

She,  however,  at  the  hazard  of  her  own  life, 
succeeded  in  saving  her  son's.  At  eleven 
years  old,  he  went  to  school,  in  Brothertoft 
chapel,  for  about  six  months,  in  which  time 
he  derived  all  the  education  he  ever  re- 
ceived. His  love  of  reading  was  so  great, 
that  as  soon  as  he  could  manage  a  gunning- 
boat,  he  used  to  employ  his  Sundays  either 
in  seeking  for  water-birds'  eggs,  or  to 

"  shoune  the  boat 

A  catching  fish,  to  make  a  groat. 
And  sometimes  with  a  snare  or  hook  j 
Well,  -what  was't  for  ?— to  buy  a  book, 
Propensity  so  in  him  lay." 

Before  he  arrived  at  man's  estate,  he  lost 
his  mother,  and  soon  afterwards  his  father 

*  A  coal-liirhter. 


141 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


142 


married  again.  WiL.  himself,  on  arriving 
at  man's  estate,  married  "  Suke  Holmes," 
and  became  a  "  gozzard,"  or  gooseherd  ; 
that  is,  a  keeper  and  breeder  of  geese,  for 
which  the  fens  were,  at  that  time,  famous 
throughout  the  kingdom,  supplying  the 
London  markets  with  fowls,  and  the  ware- 
houses with  feathers  and  quills.  In  these 
parts,  the  small  feathers  are  plucked  from 
the  live  geese  five  times  a  year,  at  Lady-tide, 
Midsummer,  Lammas,  Michaelmas,  and 
Martinmas,  and  the  larger  feathers  and 
quills  are  pulled  twice.  Goslings  even  are 
not  spared,  for  it  is  thought  that  early 
plucking  tends  to  increase  the  succeeding 
feathers.  It  is  said  that  the  mere  plucking 
hurts  the  fowl  very  little,  as  the  owners  are 
careful  not  to  pull  until  the  feathers  are 
ripe :  those  plucked  after  the  geese  are 
dead,  are  affirmed  not  to  be  so  good.  The 
number  of  geese  kept  by  Will,  must  have 
been  very  great,  for  his  "  brood  geese," 
alone,  required  five  coombs  of  corn  for 
daily  consumption. 

The  inundations  to  which  the  fens  were 
then  liable,  from  breaches,  or  overflowing 
of  the  banks,  overwhelmed  him  with  difficul- 
ties, and  ruined  his  prospects. 

"  The  poor  old  geese  away  were  floated, 
Till  some  high  lands  got  lit'rally  coated ; 
Nor  did  most  peasants  think  it  duty 
Them  to  preserve,  but  made  their  booty ; 
And  those  who  were  '  not  worth  a  goose,' 
C  n  other  people's  liv'd  profuse." 
After  many  vicissitudes  and  changes  of 
residence,  he  settled  at  Marshland,  in  Nor- 
folk, where  his  wife  practised  phlebotomy 
and  midwifery,  while  he  officiated  as  an 
auctioneeer,  cowleech,  &c.  &c.     Indeed  he 
appeared  to  have  been  almost  bred  to  the 
doctoring   profession,  for  his  own  mother 


"  a  good  cow-doctor, 


And  always  doetor'd  all  her  own, 
Being  cowleech  both  in  flesh  and  bone." 

His  mother-in-law  was  no  less  skilful, 
for  in  Will.'s  words 

'  She  in  live  stock  had  took  her  care, 
And  of  recipes  had  ample  share, 
Which  I  retain  unto  this  day." 

His  father-in-law  was  an  equally  eminent 
practitioner  ;  when,  says  Will., 

"  I  married  Sukey  Holmes,  her  father 
Did  more  than  them  put  altogether  ; 
Imparted  all  his  skill  to  me, 
Farrier,  cowleech,  and  surgery, 
All  which  he  practised  with  success." 

Will,  tells  of  a  remarkable  and  surprising 
accident,  which  closed  his  career  as  a  cow- 
,eech. 


"  The  rheumatism,  (dreadful  charm, 
Had  fix'd  so  close  in  my  left  arm, 
So  violent  throbb'd,  that  without  stroks 
To  touch  —  it  absolutely  broke  I 
Went  with  a  spring,  made  a  report, 
And  hence  in  cowleech  spoil'd  my  sport  ; 
Remain'd  so  tender,  weak,  and  sore, 
I  never  dare  attempt  it  more." 

Thus  disqualified,  he  removed  to  Lynn, 
and  opening  a  shop  in  Ferry-street,  com- 
menced his  operations  as  a  purchaser  and 
vender  of  old  books,  odds  and  ends,  and 
old  articles  of  various  descriptions  ;  from 
whence  he  obtained  the  popular  appella- 
tion of  "  Old  Hall."  On  a  board  over  the 
door,  he  designated  this  shop  the 


"  ffattrjuarian 

and  thus  quaintly  announced  liis  establish- 
ment to  the  public  : 


•  "  In  Lynn,  Ferry-street, 


Where,  should  a  stranger  set  his  feet, 
Just  cast  an  eye,  read  '  Antiquary  !' 
Turn  in,  and  but  one  hour  tarry, 
Depend  upon't,  to  his  surprise,  sir, 
He  would  turn  out  somewhat  the  wiser." 

He  had  great  opportunity  to  indulge  in 
"  Bibliomania,"  for  he  acquired  an  exten- 
sive collection  of  scarce,  curious,  and  valu- 
able books,  and  became,  in  fact,  the  only 
dealer  in  "  old  literature  ''  at  Lynn.  He 
versified  on  almost  every  occasion  that 
seemed  opportune  for  giving  himself  and 
his  verses  publicity  ;  and,  in  one  of  his 
rhyming  advertisements,  he  alphabetised 
the  names  of  ancient  and  modern  authors, 
by  way  of  catalogue.  In  addition  to  his 
bookselling  business,  he  continued  to  prac- 
tise as  an  auctioneer.  He  regularly  kept 
a  book-stall,  &c.  in  Lynn  Tuesday-market, 
from  whence  he  occasionally  knocked  down 
his  articles  to  the  best  bidder  ;  and  he  an- 
nounced his  sales  in  his  usual  whimsira! 
style.  His  hand-bill,  on  one  of  these  occa- 
sions, runs  thus  : 

"  LYNN,  19th  SEPTEMBER,  1810. 

"  First  Tuesday  in  the  next  October, 
Now  do  not  doubt  but  we'll  be  sober  I 
If  Providence  permits  us  action. 
You  may  depend  upon 

AN  AUCTION, 

At  the  stall 

That's  occupied  by  WILLIAM  HALL. 
To  enumerate  a  task  would  be, 
So  best  way  is  to  come  and  see ; 
But  not  to  come  too  vague  an  errant, 
We'll  give  a  sketch  which  we  will  warrant. 

"  About  one  hundred  books,  in  due  lots. 
And  pretty  near  th«  same  in  shoe-lotto  ; 


143 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


144 


Co&ti,  waittcoata,  brtechet,  shining  bMor.s, 
Perhaps  ten  thousand  leather  cuttings. 
Sold  at  p«i  pou°d,  your  lot  but  ask  it, 
Shall  be  weigh'd  to  you  in  a  basket  ; 
Some  lots  of  tools,  to  make  a  try  on, 
About  one  hundred  weight  of  iron  ; 
Scales,  earthenware,  arm-chairs,  a  tea-am, 
Tea-chests,  a  herring-tub,  and  so  on  ; 
With  various  more,  that's  our  intention, 
Which  are  too  tedious  here  to  mention. 

"  N.  B.  To  undeceive,  "fore  you  come  nigher, 
The  duty  chargM  upon  the  buyer  ; 
And,  should  we  find  we're  not  perplext, 
We'll  keep  it  up  the  Tuesday  next." 

During  repeated  visits  to  his  surviving 
relatives  in  his  native  fens,  he  observed  the 
altered  appearance  of  the  scene  from  the 
improved  method  of  drainage.  It  had  be- 
come like  "  another  world,"  and  he  re- 
solved 


"  to  try 


His  talent  for  posterity  ;" 

and  "  make  a  book,"  under  the  title  of 
"  The  Low  Fen  Journal,"  to  comprise  "  a 
chain  of  Incidents  relating  to  the  State  of 
the  Fens,  from  the  earliest  Account  to  the 
present  Time."  As  a  specimen  of  the  work 
he  published,  in  the  summer  of  1812,  an 
octavo  pamphlet  of  twenty-four  pages, 
called  a  "  Sketch  of  Local  History,"  by 
"  Will.  Will-be-so"  announcing 

41  If  two  hundred  subscribers  will  give  in  their  aid, 
The  whole  of  this  journal  is  meant  to  be  laid 
Under  public  view." 

This  curious  pamphlet  of  odds  and  ends 
iu  prose  and  rhyme,  without  order  or  ar- 
rangement, contained  a  "  caution  to  the 
buyer." 

"  Let  any  read  that  will  not  soil  or  rend  it, 

But  should  they  ask  to  borrow,  pray  don't  lend  it  I 

Advise  them,  '  Go  and  buy;'  'twill  better  suit 

My  purpose  ;  and  with  yon  prevent  dispute. 

With  me  a  maxim  'tis,  he  that  won't  buy 

Does  seldom  well  regard  his  neighbour's  property  ; 

And  did  you  chew  the  bit,  so  much  as  I  do 

From  lending  books,  I  think  'twould  make  you  shy  too." 

In  the  course  of  the  tract,  he  presented 
to  "  the  critics  "  the  following  admonitory 
address. 

"  Pray,  sirs,  consider,  had  you  been 
Bred  where  whole  winters  nothing's  seen 
But  naked  flood  for  miles  and  miles, 
Except  a  boat  the  eye  beguiles  ; 
Or  coots,  in  clouds,  by  buzzards  teaz'd, 
Your  ear  with  seeming  thunder  seiz'd 
From  rais'd  decoy,—  there  ducks  on  flight, 
By  tens  of  thousands  darken  light  ; 
None  to  assist  in  greatest  need, 
Parents  but  vory  badly  read- 


No  conversation  strike  the  mind. 
But  of  the  lowest,  vulgar  kind ; 
Fire  miles  from  either  church  or  school, 
No  coming  there,  but  cross  a  pool ; 
Kept  twenty  years  upon  that  station, 
With  only  six  months'  education ; 
Traverse  the  scene,  then  weigh  it  well, 
Say,  could  you  better  write  or  spell  f" 

One  extract,  in  prose,  is  an  example  of 
the  disposition  and  powers  of  his  almost 
untutored  mind,  viz. 

"  No  animation  without  generation  seems 
a  standing  axiom  in  philosophy  :  but  upon 
tasting  the  berry  of  a  plant  greatly  resem- 
bling- brooklime,  but  with  a  narrower  leaf, 
I  found  it  attended  with  a  loose  fulsome- 
ness,  very  different  from  any  thing  I  had 
ever  tasted ;  and  on  splitting  one  of  them 
with  my  nail,  out  sprang  a  fluttering  mag- 
got, which  put  me  upon  minute  examina- 
tion. The  result  of  which  was,  that  every 
berry,  according  to  its  degree  of  maturity, 
contained  a  proportionate  maggot,  up  to 
the  full  ripe  shell,  where  a  door  was  plainly 
discerned,  and  the  insect  had  taken  its 
flight.  I  have  ever  since  carefully  inspected 
the  herb,  and  the  result  is  always  the  same, 
vk.  if  you  split  ten  thousand  of  the  berries, 
you  discover  nothing  but  an  animated  germ. 
It  grows  in  shallow  water,  and  is  frequently 
accompanied  with  the  water  plantain.  Its 
berry  is  about  the  size  of  a  red  currant,  arid 
comes  on  progressively,  after  the  manner 
of  juniper  in  the  berry:  the  germ  is  first 
discoverable  about  the  middle  of  July,  and 
continues  till  the  frost  subdues  it.  And  my 
conjectures  lead  me  to  say,  that  one  luxu- 
rious plant  shall  be  the  mother  of  many 
scores  of  flies.  I  call  it  the  fly  berry 
plant." 

Thus  far  the  "  Sketch."  He  seems  to 
have  caught  the  notion  of  his  "  Low  Fen 
Journal "  from  a  former  fen  genius,  whose 
works  are  become  of  great  price,  though  it 
must  be  acknowledged,  more  for  their 
quaintness  and  rarity,  than  their  intrinsic 
merit.  Will,  refers  to  him  in  the  following 
apologetical  lines. 

"  Well,  on  the  earth  he  knows  of  none, 
With  a  full  turn  just  like  his  mind ; 

Nor  only  one  that's  dead  and  gone. 
Whose  genius  stood  as  his  inclin'd  : 

No  doubt  the  public  wish  to  know  it, 

John  Taylor,  call'd  the  water  pott, 

Who  near  two  centuries  ago 

Wrote  much  such  nonsense  as  I  do.** 

The  sale  of  the  "  Sketch"  not  answering 
his  expectations,  no  further  symptoms  of 
the  "  Journal "  made  their  appearance  at 
that  time. 


145 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


146 


In  the  summer  of  1815,  after  forty-three 
years'  practice  as  an  auctioneer,  he  an- 
nounced his  retirement  by  the  following 
luconic  farewell. 

"  RAP  SENIOR'S  given  it  up  at  last, 
With  thanks  for  ev'ry  favour  past ; 
Alias  '  ANTIQ.UABIAN  HALL* 
Will  never  more  be  heard  to  brawl ; 
As  auctioneer  no  more  will  lie, 
But's  thrown  his  wicked  hammer  by. 
Should  you  prefer  him  to  appraise, 
He's  licensed  for  future  days ; 
Or  still  employ  him  on  commission. 
He'll  always  treat  on  fair  condition, 
For  goods  brought  to  him  at  his  stand. 
Or  at  your  home,  to  sell  by  ha»d  ; 
Or  should  you  want  his  pen's  assistance, 
He'll  wait  on  you  at  any  distance, 
To  lot,  collect,  in  place  of  clerk, 
Or  prevent  moving  goods  i'  th'  dark ; 
In  short,  for  help  or  counsel's  aid, 
You  need  not  of  him  be  afraid." 

The  harvest  of  1816  proved  wet  and  un- 
favourable, and  he  thought  "  it  almost  ex- 
ceeded anv  thing  in  his  memory ;"  where- 
:ore  tne  woria  was  favoured  with  "  Reflec- 
f.ons  upon  Times,  and  Times  and  Times  ! 
or  a  more  than  Sixty  Years'  Tour  of  the 
Mind,"  by  "  Low- Fen- Bill-Hall."  This 
was  an  octavo  pamphlet  of  sixteen  pages, 
in  prose,  quite  as  confused  as  his  other 
productions,  "  transmitting  to  posterity," 
as  the  results  of  sixty  years'  experience, 
that  "  the  frequency  of  thunderstorms  in 
the  spring," — "  thejepeated  appearance  of 
water-spouts," — "  an  innumerable^uantity 
of  black  snails," — "  an  unusual  number  of 
field  mice," — and  "  the  great  many  snakes 
to  be  seen  about,"  are  certain  "  indications 
of  a  wet  harvest "  To  these  observations, 
intermingled  with  digression  upon  digres- 
sion, he  prefixed  as  one  of  the  mottoes,  an 
extremely  appropriate  quotation  from  Deut. 
c.  32.  v.  29,  "  O  that  they  were  wise,  that 
Iliey  underst ood  this  !" 

In  the  spring  of  1818,  when  in  his 
seventieth  year,  or,  as  he  says,  "  David's 
gage  being  near  complete,"  he  determined 
on  an  attempt  to  publish  his  "  Low  Fen 
Journal,"  in  numbers;  the  first  of  which 
lie  thus  announced  : 

"  A  Lincolnshire  rais'd  medley  pie, 
An  original  miscellany, 
Not  meant  as  canting,  puzzling  mystery, 
But  for  a  general  true  FEN  HISTOBY, 
Such  as  desiga'd  some  time  ago, 
By  him  'yclept  Will,  mil-be-so  ; 
Here's  Number  ONE  for  publication, 
if  meet  the  public's  approbation. 


I,ouj-Fen-Bill-Hall  his  word  engages 
To  send  about  two  hundred  pages,    * 
Collected  by  his  gleaning  pains, 
Mix'd  with  the  fruit  of  his  own  brains.** 
This  specimen  of  the  work  was  as  un- 
intelligible as  the  before-mentioned  intro- 
ductory "  Sketch,"  partaking  of  the  same 
autobiographical,  historical,   and  religious 
character,  with  acrostic,  elegiac,  obituarian, 
and  other  extraneous  pieces  in  prose  and 
rhyme.     His  life  had  been  passed  in  vicis- 
situde and  hardship,  "  oft'  pining  for  a  bit 
of  bread ;"  and  from  experience,   he  was 
well  adapted  to 


To  whom  most  extra  lots  befell ; 

Who  liv'd  for  months  on  stage  of  planks, 

'Midst  captain  Flood's  most  swelling  pranks, 

Five  miles  from  any  food  to  have, 

Yea  often  risk'd  a  wat'ry  grave ;" 

yet  his  facts  and  style  were  so  incongruous 
that  speaking  of  the  "  Sketch,"  he  says, 
when  he 


'  sent  it  out 


Good  lack  1  to  know  what  'twas  about  ? 

He  might  as  well  have  sent  it  muzzled, 

For  half  the  folks  seem'd  really  puzzled. 

Soliciting  for  patronage, 

He  might  have  spent  near  half  an  age ; 

From  all  endeavours  undertook, 

He  could  not  get  it  to  a  book." 

Though  the  only  "  historical"  part  of  the 
first  number  of  his  "  Fen  Journal,"  in 
twenty-four  pages,  consisted  of  prosaic 
fragments  of  his  grandfather's  "  poaching," 
his  mother's  "  groaning,"  his  father's  "fish- 
ing," and  his  own'  "  conjectures ;"  yet  he 
tells  the  public,  that 

41  Protected  by  kind  Providence, 

I  mean  in  less  than  twelve  months  hence, 

Push'd  by  no  very  common  sense, 

To  give  six  times  as  much  as  here  is, 

And  hope  there's  none  will  think  it  dear  is, 

Consid'ring  th'  matter  rather  queer  is." 

In  prosecution  of  his  intentions.  No  2 
shortly  followed ;  and,  as  it  was  alike  hete- 
rogeneous and  unintelligible,  he  says  he 
had  "  caught  the  Swiftiania,  in  running 
digression  on  digression,"  with  as  many 
whimseys  as  "  Peter,  Martin,  and  John 
had  in  twisting  their  father's  will.''  He  ex- 
pected that  this  "  gallimaufry  "  and  himself 
would  be  consecrated  to  posterity,  for  he 
says, 

"  'Tig  not  for  lucre  that  I  write, 
But  something  lasting, — to  indite 
What  may  redound  to  purpose  good. 
(If  hap'ly  can  be  understood  ;) 
And,  as  time  passes  o'er  his  stages 
Transmit  my  mind  to  future  ages." 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


148 


On  concluding  his  seccnd  number,  he 
"  gratefully  acknowledges  the  liberality  of 
his  subscribers,  and  is  apprehensive  the 
Interlope  will  find  a  very  partial  acceptance; 
but  it  being  so  congenial  an  interlude  to 
the  improvement  of  Low  Fen  and  Billing- 
hay  Dale  manners,  to  be  hereafter  shown, 
he  hopes  it  will  not  be  considered  detri- 
mental, should  his  work  continue."  Such, 
however,  was  not  the  case,  for  his  literary 
project  terminated :  unforeseen  events  re- 
duced his  finances,  and  he  had  not 


Enough,  to  keep  his  harp  in  tune." 

The  care  of  a  large  family  of  orphan 
grandchildren,  in  indigent  circumstances, 
having  devolved  upon  him,  he  became  per- 
plexed with  extreme  difficulties,  and  again 
experienced  the  truth  of  his  own  observa- 
tion, that 

"  If  two  steps  forward,  oft'  three  back, 
Through  life  had  been  hi*  constant  track." 

Attracted  by  the  "  bodies  of  divinity," 
and  other  theological  works,  which  his 
"  antiquarian  library  "  contained,  his  atten- 
tion was  particularly  directed  to  the  funda- 
mental truths  of  religion,  and  the  doctrines 
of  "  the  various  denominations  of  the 
Christian  world."  The  result  was,  that 
•without  joining  any,  he  imbibed  such  por- 
tions of  the  tenets  of  each  sect,  that  his 
opinions  on  this  subject  were  as  singular  as 
on  every  other.  Above  all  sectaries,  yet 
not  entirely  agreeing  even  with  them,  he 
"  loved  and  venerated  "  the  "  Moravians  or 
UnitedBrethren,"for  their  meek,unassuming 
demeanour,  their  ceaseless  perseverance  in 
propagating  the  gospel,  and  their  bound- 
less love  towards  the  whole  human  race. 
Of  his  own  particular  notions,  he  thus  says, 

"  If  I  on  doctrines  have  right  view, 

Here's  this  for  me,  and  that  for  yon; 

Another  gives  my  neighbour  comfort, 

A  stranger  comes  with  one  of  some  sort. 

When  after  candid  scrutinizing, 

We  find  them  equally  worth  prizing ; 

'Cause  all  in  gospel  love  imparted, 

Nor  is  there  any  one  perverted ; 

Only  as  they  may  seem  unlike, 

Nor  can  on  other's  fancy  strike : 

Whereas  from  due  conformity, 

O  1  what  a  spread  of  harmony. 

Each  with  each,  bearing  and  forbearing. 

All  wishing  for  a  better  hearing. 

Would  in  due  time,  then  full  improve 

Into  one  family  of  love  : 

Instead  of  shyness  on  each  other, 

M^  fcllow-christian,  sister,  brother. 


And  each  in  candomr  thus  impart, 
You  have  my  fellowship  and  heart ; 
Let  this  but  be  the  root  o'  th'  sense, 
Jesus  the  Christ,  my  confidence, 
As  given  in  the  Father's  love. 
No  other  system  I  approve." 

After  a  short  illness,  towards  the  con- 
clusion of  his  seventy-eighth  year,  death 
closed  his  mortal  career.  Notwithstanding 
his  eccentricity,  he  was  "  devoid  of  guile,1' 
plain  and  sincere  in  all  transactions,  and 
his  memory  is  universally  respected. — 
"  Peace  to  his  ashes  " — (to  use  his  own 
expressions,) 


"  Let  alHhe  world  say  worst  they  can, 
He  was  an  upright,  honest  man." 


K. 


OTmter. 


For  the  Table  Book. 
WINTER  1  I  love  thee,  for  thou  com'st  to  me 

Laden  with  joys  congenial  to  my  mind, 
Books  that  with  bards  and  solitude  agres, 

And  all  those  virtues  which  adorn  mankind. 
What  though  the  meadows,  and  the  neighb'ring  hills, 

That  rear  their  cloudy  summits  in  the  skies — 
What  though  the  woodland  brooks,  and  lowland  rill& 

That  charm'd  our  ears,  and  gratified  our  eyes, 
In  thy  forlorn  habiliments  appear  ? 

What  though  the  zephyrs  of  the  summer  tide, 
And  all  the  softer  beauties  of  the  year 

Are  fled  and  gone,  kind  Heav'n  has  not  denied 
Our  books  and  studies,  music,  conversation. 
And  ev'ning  parties  for  our  recrerr  ion  ; 
And  these  suffice,  for  seasons  snatch'd  away, 
Till  SpRilft  leads  forth  the  slowly-length'ning  day. 
B.  W.  R. 


A  WINTER'S  DAY. 

For  the  Table  Book. 

The  horizontal  sun,  like  an  orb  of  molten 
gold,  casts  "  a  dim  religious  light"  upon 
the  surpliced  world :  the  beams,  reflected 
from  the  dazzling  snow,  fall  upon  the 
purple  mists,  which  extend  round  the  earth 
like  a  zone,  and  in  the  midst  the  planet 
appears  a  fixed  stud,  surpassing  the  ruby  in 
brilliancy. 

Now  trees  and  shrubs  are  borne  down 
with  sparkling  congelations,  and  the  coral 
clusters  of  the  hawthorn  and  holly  are  more 
splendid,  and  offer  a  cold  conserve  to  the 
wandering  schoolboy.  The  huntsman  is 
seen  riding  to  covert  in  his  scarlet  livery, 
the  gunner  is  heard  at  intervals  in  the  up- 
lands, and  the  courser  comes  galloping 
down  the  hill  side,  with  his  hounds  in  full 


149 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


150 


chase  before  him.  The  farmer's  boy,  who 
is  forced  from  his  warm  bed,  Jo  milk  cows 
in  a  cold  meadow,  complains  it's  a  "  burn- 
ing'' shame  that  he  should  be  obliged  to  go 
starving  by  himself,  while  "  their  wench" 
has  nothing  else  to  do  but  make  a  fire,  and 
boil  the  tea-kettle.  Now,  Mrs.  Jeremy 
Bellclack,  properly  so  called,  inasmuch  as 
the  unmentionables  are  amongst  her  pecu- 
liar attributes,  waked  by  the  mail-coach 
horn,  sounding  an  Introit  to  the  day,  orders 
her  husband,  poor  fellow,  to  "  just  get  up 
and  look  what  sort  of  a  morning  it  is ;" 
and  he,  shivering  at  the  bare  idea,  affects  to 
be  fast  asleep,  till  a  second  summons,  ac- 
companied by  the  contact  of  his  wife's 
heavy  hand,  obliges  him  to  paddle  across 
the  ice-cold  plaster  floor;  and  the  trees  and 
church-steeples,  stars,  spears,  and  saws, 
which  form  an  elegant  tapestry  over  the 
windows,  seern  to  authorize  the  excuse  that 
he  "  can't  see,"  while,  shivering  over  the 
dressing-table,  he  pours  a  stream  of  visible 
breath  on  the  frozen  pane. 

After  breakfast,  Dicky,  "  with  shining 
morning  face,"  appears  in  the  street,  on 
his  way  to  school,  with  his  Latin  grammar 
in  one  hand,  and  a  slice  of  bread  and  but- 
ter in  the  other,  to  either  of  which  he  pays 
his  devoirs,  and  "  slides  and  looks,  and 
slides  and  looks,"  all  the  way  till  he  arrives 
at  "  the  house  of  bondage,"  when  his  fin- 
gers are  so  benumbed,  that  he  is  obliged  to 
warm  his  slate,  and  even  then  they  refuse 
to  cast  up  figures,  "  of  their  own  accord." 
In  another  part  of  the  school,  Joe  Lazy  finds 
it "  so  'nation  cold,"  that  he  is  quite  unable 
to  learn  the  two  first  lines  of  his  lesson, — 
and  he  plays  at  "  cocks  and  dollars"  with 
Jem  Slack  in  a  corner.  The  master 
stands  before  the  fire,  like  the  Colossus  of 
Rhodes,  all  the  morning,  to  the  utter  dis- 
comfiture of  the  boys,  who  grumble  at  the 
monopoly,  and  secretly  tell  one  another, 
that  they  pay  for  the  fire,  and  ought  to  have 
the  benefit  of  it.  At  length  he  says,  "  You 
may  go,  boys  ;"  whereupon  ensues  such  a 
pattering  of  feet,  shutting  of  boxes,  and 
M.raii'blmg  for  hats,  as  beats  Milton's 
"  busy  hum  of  men"  all  to  nothing,  till  they 
reach  their  wonted  slide  in  .the  yard,  where 
they  suddenly  stop  on  discovering  that 
"  that  skinny  old  creature,  Bet  Fifty,  the 
cook,"  has  bestrewed  it  from  end  to  end 
with  sand  and  cinders.  Frost-stricken  as 
it  were,  they  stare  at  one  another,  and  look 
unnutterable  things  at  the  aforesaid  "  skin- 
ny old  creature;"  till  Jack  Turbulent,  ring- 
leader-general of  all  their  riots  and  rebel- 
lions, execrates  "  old  Betty,  cook,"  with 
the  fluency  of  a  parlour  boarder,  and  hurls 


a  well-wrought  snowball  at  the  Gorgon, 
who  turns  round  in  a  passion  to  discover 
the  delinquent,  when  her  pattens,  unused 
to  such  quick  rotatory  motion,  slip  from 
under  her  feet,  and  "  down  topples  she," 
to  the  delight  of  the  urchins  around  her, 
who  drown  her  cries  and  threats  in  reite- 
rated bursts  of  laughter. 

Now,  the  Comet  stage-coach,  bowling 
along  the  russet-coloured  road,  with  a  long 
train  of  vapour  from  the  horses'  nostrils, 
looks  really  like  a  comet.  At  the  same 
time,  Lubin,  who  has  been  sent  to  town  by 
his  mistress  with  a  letter  for  the  post-office, 
and  a  strict  injunction  to  return  speedily, 
finds  it  impossible  to  pass  the  blacksmith's 
shop,  where  the  bright  sparks  fly  from  the 
forge;  and  he  determines  "just*'  to  stop  and 
look  at  the  blaze  "  a  bit,"  which,  as  he 
says,  "  raly  does  one's  eyes  good  of  a  win- 
ter's morning ;"  and  then,  he  just  blows 
the  bellows  a  bit,  and  finds  it  so  pleasant 
to  listen  to  the  strokes  of  Vulcan's  wit,  and 
his  sledge-hammer,  alternately,  that  he  con- 
tinues blowing  up  the  fire,  till,  at  length, 
he  recollects  what  a  "  blowing  up"  he  shall 
have  from  his  "  Missis"  when  he  gets  home, 
and  forswears  the  clang  of  horse-shoes 
and  plough-irons,  and  leaves  the  temple  of 
the  Cyclops,  but  not  without  a  "  longing, 
ling'ring  look  behind''  at  Messrs.  Blaze 
and  Company. 

From  the  frozen  surface  of  the  pond  or 
lake,  men  with  besoms  busily  clear  away 
the  drift,  for  which  they  are  amply  remu- 
nerated by  voluntary  contributions  from 
every  fresh-arriving  skater ;  and  black  ice  is 
discovered  between  banks  of  snow,  and 
ramified  into  numerous  transverse,  oblique, 
semicircular,  or  elliptical  branches.  Here 
and  there,  the  snow  appears  in  large  heaps, 
like  rocks  or  islands,  and  round  these  the 
proficients  in  the  art 

•*  Come  and  trip  it  as  they  go 
On  the  light,  fantastic  toe," 

winding  and  sailing,  one  amongst  an- 
other, like  the  smooth-winged  swallows, 
which  so  lately  occupied  the  same  surface. 
While  these  are  describing  innumerable 
circles,  the  sliding  fraternity  in  another 
part  form  parallel  lines ;  each,  of  each  class, 
vies  with  the  other  in  feats  of  activity,  all 
enjoy  the  exhilarating  pastime,  and  every 
face  is  illumined  with  cheerfulness.  The 
philosophic  skater,  big  with  theory,  con- 
vinced, as  he  tells  every  one  he  meets,  that 
the  whole  art  consists  "  merely  in  trans- 
ferring the  centre  of  gravity  from  one  foot 
to  the  other"  boldly  essays  a  demonstra- 
tion, and  instantly  transfers  it  from  both, 


151 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


152. 


so  as  to  honour  the  frozen  element  with 
a  sudden  salute  from  that  part  of  the  body 
which  usually  gravitates  on  a  chair; 
and  the  wits  compliment  him  on  the 
superior  knowledge  by  which  he  has 
"  broken  the  ice,"  and  the  little  lads  run 
to  see  "  what  a  big  star  the  gentleman  has 
made  !"  and  think  it  must  have  hurt  him 
"  above  a  bit !" 

It  is  now  that  the  different  canals  are 
frozen  up,  and  goods  are  conveyed  by 
the  stage-waggon,  and  "  it's  a  capital  time 
for  the  turnpikes ;"  and  those  who  can  get 
brandy,  drink  it;  and  those  who  can't, 
drink  ale;  and  those  who  are  unable  to 
procure  either,  do  much  better  without 
them.  And  now,  ladies  have  red  noses, 
and  the  robin,  with  his  little  head  turned 
knowingly  on  one  side,  presents  his  burning 
breast  at  the  parlour  window,  and  seems  to 
crave  a  dinner  from  the  noontide  breakfast 
In  such  a  day,  the  "  son  and  heir"  of  the 
"  gentleman  retired  from  business"  bedi- 
zens the  drawing-room  with  heavy  loads  of 
prickly  evergreen ;  and  bronze  candle- 
bearers,  porcelain  figures,  and  elegant 
chimney  ornaments,  look  like  prince 
Mafcolm's  soldiers  at  "  Birnam  wood,"  or 
chorister  boys  on  a  holy  Thursday ;  and 
his  "  Ma"  nearly  falls  into  hysterics  on 
discovering  the  mischief;  and  his  "  Pa" 
begins  to  scold  him  for  being  so  naughty ; 
and  the  budding  wit  asks,  as  he  runs  out 
of  the  room,  "  Why,  don't  you  know  that 
these  are  the  holly  days  ?"  and  his  father 
relates  the  astonishing  instance  of  early 
genius  at  every  club,  card-party,  or  vestry- 
meeting  for  a  month  to  come.  Now,  all  the 
pumps  are  frozen,  old  men  tumble  down 
on  the  flags,  and  ladies  "  look  blue"  at  their 
lovers.  Now,  the  merry-growing  bacchanal 
begins  to  thaw  himself  with  frequent  po- 
tations of  wine  ;  bottle  after  bottle  is  sacri- 
ficed to  the  health  of  his  various  friends, 
though  his  own  health  is  sacrificed  in  the 
ceremony  ;  and  the  glass  that  quaffs  "  the 
prosperity  of  the  British  constitution," 
ruins  his  own. 

And  now,  dandies,  in  rough  great  coats 
and  fur  collars,  look  like  Esquimaux  In- 
dians; and  the  fashionables  of  the  fair  sex, 
in  white  veils  and  swans-down  muffs  and 
tippets,  have  (begging  their  pardons) 
very  much  the  appearance  of  polar  bears. 
Now,  Miss  Enigmaria  Conundrina  Riddle, 
poring  over  her  new  pocket-book,  lisps 
out,  "  Why  are  ladies  in  winter  like  tea- 
kettles ?"  to  which  old  Mr.  Riddle,  pouring 
forth  a  dense  ringlet  of  tobacco-smoke,  re- 
plies, "  Because  they  dance  and  sing ;" 
but  master  Augustus  Adolphus  Riddle, 


who  has  heard  it  before,  corrects  him  by 
saying,  "  NQ,  Pa,  that's  not  it — it's  because 
they  are  furred  up."  Now,  unless  their 
horses  are  turned  up,  the  riders  are  very 
likely  to  be  turned  down ;  and  deep  weiis 
are  dry,  and  poor  old  women,  with  a 
"  well-a-day !"  are  obliged  to  boil  down 
snow  and  icicles  to  make  their  tea  with. 
Now,  an  old  oak-tree,  with  only  one  branch, 
looks  like  a  man  with  a  rifle  to  his  shoulder, 
and  the  night-lorn  traveller  trembles  at  the 
prospect  of  having  his  head  and  his  pockets 
rifled  together.  Now,  sedan-chairs,  and 
servants  with  lanterns,  are  "  flitting  across 
the  night,"  to  fetch  home  their  masters  and 
mistresses  from  oyster-eatings,  and  qua- 
drille parties.  And  now,  a  young  lady, 
who  had  retreated  from  the  heat  of  the  ball- 
room, to  take  the  benefit  of  the  north  wind, 
and  caught  a  severe  cold,  calls  in  the 
doctor,  who  is  quite  convinced  of  the  cor- 
rectness of  the  old  adage,  "  It's  an  ill  wind 
that  blows  nobody  good." 

Now,  the  sultana  of  the  night  reigns  oh 
her  throne  of  stars,  in  the  blue  zenith,  and 
young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  had 
shivered  all  day  by  the  parlour  fire,  and 
found  themselves  in  danger  of  annihilation 
when  the  door  by  chance  had  been  left  a  little 
way  open,  are  quite  warm  enough  to  walk 
together  by  moonlight,  though  every  thing 
around  them  is  actually  petrified  by  the 
frost. 

Now,  in  my  chamber,  the  last  ember 
falls,  and  seems  to  warn  us  as  it  descends, 
that  though  we,  like  it,  may  shine  among 
the  brilliant,  and  be  cherished  by  the  great 
(grate,)  we  must  mingle  our  ashes.  The 
wasted  candle,  too,  is  going  the  way  of  all 
flesh,  and  the  writer  of  these  "  night 
thoughts,"  duly  impressed  with  the  im- 
portance of  his  own  mortality,  takes  his 
farewell  of  his  anti-critical  readers  in  the 
language  of  the  old  song, — 


1  Gude  night,  an'  joy  be  wi'  you  all  I". 


Lichfield. 


J.H. 


TAKE  NOTICE. 

A  correspondent  who  has  seen  the  origi- 
nal of  the  following  notice,  written  at  Bath, 
says,  it  would  have  been  placed  on  a  board 
in  a  garden  there,  had  not  a  friend  advised 
its  author  to  the  contrary : 

"  ANY    PERSON    TRESPACE   HERE 

SHALL    BE    PROSTICUTED 

ACCORDING    TO    LAW." 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


154 


THE  BAZAAR. 

For  the  Table  Book. 

The  Bazaar  in  Soho 

Is  completely  the  go. —        (Song., 

Put  it  down  in  the  bill 
Is  the  fountain  of  ill,  — 
This  has  every  shopkeeper  undone — 
Bazaars  never  trust,  so  down  with  your  dust, 
And  help  us  to  diddle  all  London.         (Song.) 


Oh  how  I've  wish'd  for  come  time  back 

To  ride  to  the  Bazaar, 
A  nd  I  declare  the  day  looks  fair 
Now  won't  you  go,  mamma? 
For  there  our  friends  we're  sure  to  meet, 

So  let  us  haste  away, 
My  cousins,  too,  last  night  told  yon. 
They'd  all  be  there  to-day. 
With  a  "  How  do  you  do, 
Ma'am  ?"  "  How  are  you  ? 

How  dear  the  things  all  are  1" 
Throughout  the  day 
You  hear  them  say, 
At  fam'd  Soho  Bazaar. 

Some  look  at  this  thing,  then  at  that. 
But  vow  they're  all  too  high  ; 
How  much  is  this  ?" — "  Two  guineas,  miaa  J" 
"  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  buy  I" 
.uook  at  these  pretty  books,  my  love, 

I  think  it  sooa  will  rain ; 
There's  Mrs.  Howe,  I  saw  her  bow. 
Why  don't  you  bow  again? 
With  a  "  How  do  yen  do, 
Ma'am  ?"  "  How  are  you  ? 

How  dear  the  things  all  are  I" 
Throughout  the  day 
You  hear  them  say, 
At  fam'd  Soho  Bazaar. 

Just  see  that  picture  on  the  box, 

How  beautifully  done  I 
"  It  isn't  high,  ma'am,  won't  you  buy  ? 

It's  only  one  pound  one." 
How  pretty  all  these  bonnets  look 

With  red  and  yellow  strings ; 
Some  here,  my  dear,  don't  go  too  near, 
You  mustn't  touch  the  things. 
With  a  "  How  do  you  do, 
Ma'am  ?"  "  How  are  yon  ? 

How  dear  the  things  all  are  1" 
Throughout  the  day 
You  hear  them  say, 
At  fam'd  Soho  Bazaar. 

Miss  JTugfjins,  have  you  seen  enough? 

Pur.  gorry  I  can't  stay; 
There's  Mrs.  Snooks,  how  fat  she  looks 

She's  coming  on  thij  way  : 


Dear  madam,  give  me  leave  («  ask 

You, — how  your  husband  is  ? — 
Why,  Mr.  Snooks  has  lost  his  looks, 
He's  got  the  rheumatiz  I 

With  a  "  How  do  you  do. 
Ma'am  ?"  "  How  are  you  ? 

How  dear  the  things  all  are  1 
Throughout  the  day 
You  hear  them  say, 
At  fam'd  Soho  Bazaar. 


"  Tom  !  see  that  girl,  how  well  she  walks 

But  faith,  I  must  confess, 
I  never  saw  a  girl  before 

In  such  a  style  of  dress." 
"  Why,  really,  Jack,  I  think  you're  right, 
Just  let  me  look  a  while ; 

(looking  through  his 
I  like  \iergait  at  any  rate. 
But  don't  quite  like  her  style." 
With  a  "  How  da  you  do, 
Ma'am  ?"  "  How  aie  yon  ? 

How  dear  the  things  all  are  I" 
Throughout  the  day 
You  hear  them  say, 
At  fam'd  Soho  Bazaar. 


"  That  vulgar  lady's  standing  there 
That  every  one  may  view  her ;'' — 
*  Sir,  that's  my  daughter;"— "No,  not  her; 

I  mean  the  next  one  to  her :" 
"  Oh,  that's  my  niece," — "  Oh  no,  not  her,"-- 

"  You  seem,  sir,  quite  amused ;" 
"  Bear  ma'am, — heyday  I — what  shall  1  sajr  ? 
I'm  really  quite  confused." 
With  a  "  How  do  you  do, 
Ma'am  ?"   "  How  are  you  ? 

How  dear  the  things  all  ar»  1" 
Throughout  the  day 
You  hear  them  say. 
At  fam'd  Soho  Bazaar. 


Thns  beanx  and  belles  tog-ether  meet, 

And  thus  they  spend  the  day  ; 
And  walk  and  talk,  and  talk  and  walk. 

And  then  they  walk  away. 
If  yon  have  half  an  hour  to  spare, 

The  better  way  by  far 
IB  h«ra  to  lounge  it,  with  a  friend. 
In  the  Soho  Bazaar. 

With  a  "  How  do  yon  do. 
Ma'am  ?"  "  How  r>.i  e  yon  ? 

How  dear  the  things  all  »•«  !** 
Throughout  the  d:iy 
You  hear  them  say. 
At  fam'd  Soho  ll«.z».ir 


15 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


156 


THE  SEASON  OUT  OF  TOWN. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

The  banks  are  partly  green ;  hedges  and  trees 
Are  black  and  shrouded,  and  the  keen  wind  roars, 

Like  dismal  music  wand'ring  over  seas, 
And  wailing  to  the  agitated  shores. 

The  fields  are  dotted  witli  manure — the  sheep 
In  unshorn  wool,  streak'd  with  the  shepherd's  red, 

Their  undivided  peace  and  friendship  keep, 
Shaking  their  bells,  like  children  to  their  bed. 

The  roads  are  white  and  miry — waters  run 
With  violence  through  their  tracks — and  sheds,  that 
flowers 

In  summer  graced,  are  open  to  the  sun, 
Which  shines  in  noonday's  horizontal  hours. 

Frost  claims  the  night ;  and  morning,  like  a  bride, 
Forth  from  her  chamber  glides:  mist  spreads  her 
vest; 

The  sunbeams  ride  the  clouds  till  eventide, 
And  the  wind  rolls  them  to  ethereal  rest. 

Sleet,  shine,  cold,  fog,  in  portions  fill  the  time ; 

Like  hope,  the  prospect  cheers ;  like  breath  it  fades ; 
Life  grows  in  seasons  to  returning  prime, 

And  beauty  risen  from  departing  shades. 


January,  1827. 


P. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  BELGRADE. 

Addressed  to  the  Admirers  of  Alliteration, 
and  the  Advocates  of  Noisy  Numbers. 

Ardentcm  aspicio  »tque  arrectis  auribis  asto.—  Virgil. 

An  Austnan  army  awfully  arrayed, 

Boldly  by  battery  besieged  Belgrade : 

Cossack  commanders  cannonading  come, 

Dealing  destruction's  devastating  doom  ; 

Every  endeavour  engineers  essay, 

For  fame,  for  fortune  fighting — furious  fray  I 

Generals  'gainst  generals  grapple,  gracious  G — dl 

How  honours  heaven  heroic  hardihood  I 

Infuriate — indiscriminate  in  ill — 

Kinsmen  kill  kindred — kindred  kinsmen  kill: 

Labour  low  levels  loftiest,  longest  lines, 

Men  march  "mid  mounds,  'mid  moles,  'mid  mnrder- 

ous  mines : 

Now  noisy  noxious  numbers  notice  nought 
Of  outward  obstacles,  opposing  ought, — 
Poor  patriots !— partly  purchased — partly  press'd, 
Quite  quaking,  quickly,  "Quarter!  quarter  I"  quest; 
Reason  returns,  religious  right  redounds, 
Suwarrow  stops  snch  sanguinary  sounds. 
Truce  to  thee,  Turkey,  triumph  to  thy  train 
Unwise,  -injust,  unmerciful  Ukraine! 
Vanish,  vain  victory  i  vanish,  victory  vain  ! 
Why  wish  we  warfare  ?     Wherefore  welcome  were 


Xerxes,  Xim^nes,  Xauthas,  X^v'.ere 

Yield,  yield,  ye  youth*!  ye  yeomen,  ywld  yonr  rt'l  j 

Zeno's,  Zampatee's,  Zoroaster's  zeal, 

Attracting  all,  arms  against  acts  appeal  I 


NAMES  OF  PLACES. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

The  names  of  towns,  cities,  or  villages, 
which  terminate  in  ter,  such  as  Chester, 
Caster,  Cester,  show  that  the  Romans,  in 
their  stay  among  us,  made  fortifications 
about  the  places  where  they  are  now  situ- 
ated. In  the  Latin  tongue  Castra  is  the 
name  of  these  fortifications — such  are  Cas- 
tor, Chester,  Doncaster,  Leicester:  Don 
signifies  a  mountain,  and  Ley,  or  Lei, 
ground  widely  overgrown. 

In  our  ancient  tongue  wich,  or  wick, 
means  a  place  of  refuge,  and  is  the  termi- 
nation of  Warwick,  Sandwich,  Greenwich, 
Woolwich,  &c. 

Thorp,  before  the  word  village  was  bor- 
rowed from  the  French,  was  used  in  its 
stead,  and  is  found  at  the  end  of  many 
towns'  names. 

Bury,  Burgh,  or  Berry,  signifies,  meta- 
phorically, a  town  having  a  wall  about  it, 
sometimes  a  high,  or  chief  place. 

Wold  means  a  plain  open  country. 

Combe,  a  valley  between  two  hills. 

Knock,  a  hill. 

Hurst,  a  woody  place. 

Magh,  a  field. 

Innes,  an  island. 

Worth,  a  place  situated  between  two 
rivers. 

Ing,  a  tract  of  meadows. 

Minster  is  a  contraction  of  monastery. 

SAM  SAM'S  SON. 


SONNET 
For  the  Table  Book. 

The  snowdrop,  rising  to  its  infant  height, 

Looks  like  a  sickly  child  upon  the  spot 

Of  young  nativity,  regarding  not 
The  air's  caress  of  melody  and  light 
Beam'd  from  the  east,  and  soften'd  by  the  bright 

Effusive  flash  of  gold : — the  willow  stoops 
And  muses,  like  a  bride  without  her  love, 

On  her  own  shade,  which  lies  on  waves,  and  droops 
Beside  the  natal  trunk,  nor  looks  above : — 
The  precipice,  that  torrents  cannot  move, 

Leans  o'er  the  sea,  and  steadfast  as  a  rock, 
Of  dash  and  cloud  unconscious,  bears  the  rude 

Continuous  surge,  the  sounds  and  echoes  mock : 
Thus  Mental  Thought  enduring,  wears  in  solitude. 

182?.  •,  •,  P. 


THE  TABLE   l: 


Jfmtt  of  ^arroto 


thus  sared 


From  guardian-hands  which  else  had  more  depraved. 


Some  years  ago,  the  fine  old  font  of  the 
ancient  parish  church  of  Harrow-on-the 
hill  was  torn  from  that  edifice,  by  the 
"  gentlemen  of  the  parish,"  and  given  out 
to  mend  the  roads  with.  The  feelings  of 
one  parishioner  (to  the  honour  of  the  sex,  a 
female)  were  outraged  by  this  act  of  paro- 
chial Vandalism  ;  and  she  was  allowed  to 
preserve  it  from  destruction,  and  place  it  in 
a  walled  nook,  at  the  garden  front  of  her 
house,  where  it  still  remains.  By  her 
obliging  permission,  a  drawing  of  it  was 
made  the  summer  before  last,  and  is 
rngraved  above. 

On  the  exclusion  of  Harrow  font  from 
(he  church,  the  parish  officers  put  up  the 
marble  wash  -hand -basin -stand  -  looking- 
thing,  which  now  occupies  its  place,  in- 
scribed with  the  names  of  the  church- 

VOL.  I.— 6, 


wardens  during  whose  reign  venality  or 
stupidity  effected  the  removal  of  its  pre- 
cessor.  If  there  be  any  persons  in  that 
parish  who  either  venerate  antiquity,  or  de- 
sire to  see  "  right  things  in  right  places," 
it  is  possible  that,  by  a  spirited  representa- 
tion, they  may  arouse  the  indifferent,  and 
shame  the  ignorant  to  an  interchange :  and 
force  an  expression  of  public  thanks  to  the 
lady  whose  good  taste  and  care  enabled  it 
to  be  effected.  The  relative  situation  and 
misappropriation  of  each  font  is  a  stain  on 
the  parish,  easily  removable,  by  employing 
a"few  men  and  a  few  pounds  to  clap  the 
paltry  usurper  under  the  spout  of  the  good 
lady's  house,  and  restore  the  noble  original 
from  that  degrading  destination,  to  its 
rightful  dignity  in  the  church 


159 


THE  TABLE   BOOK. 


16C 


<§amrfe 

No.  III. 

'From  the  "  Rewards  of  Virtue,"  a  Comedy, 
by  John  Fountain,  printed  1661.J 

Success  in  Battle  not  always  attributable  to  the  General. 

Generals  oftimes  famous  grow 

By  valiant  friends,  or  cowardly  enemies  ; 

Or,  what  is  worse,  by  some  mean  piece  of  chance. 

Truth  is,  'tis  pretty  to  observe  . 

How  little  Princes  and  great  Generals 

Contribute  oftentimes  to  the  fame  they  win. 

How  oft  hath  it  been  found,  that  noblest  minds 

With  two  short  arms,  have  fought  with  fatal  stars  ; 

And  have  endeavour'd  with  their  dearest  blood 

To  mollify  those  diamonds,  where  dwell 

The  fate  of  kingdoms ;  and  at  last  have  fain 

By  vulgar  hatads,  unable  now  to  do 

More  for  their  cause  than  die  ;  and  have  been  lost 

Among  the  sacrifices  of  their  swords  ; 

No  more  remember'd  than  poor  villagers, 

Whose  ashes  sleep  among  the  common  flowers, 

That  every  meadow  wears  :  whilst  'other  men 

With  trembling  hands  have  caught  a  vietorj, 

And  on  pale  foreheads  wear  triumphant  bays. 

Besides,  I  have  thought 

A  thousand  times  ;  in  times  of  war,  when  we 

Lift  up  our  hands  to  heaven  for  victory ; 

Suppose  some  virgin  Shepherdess,  whose  soul 

Is  chaste  and  clean  as  the  cold  spring,  where  she 

Quenches  all  thirsts,  being  told  of  enemies, 

That  seek  to  fright  the  long-enjoyed  Peace 

Of  our  Arcadia  hence  with  sound  of  drums, 

And  with  hoarse  trumpets'  warlike  airs  to  drown 

The  harmless  music  of  her  oaten  reeds , 

Should  in  the  passion  of  her  troubled  sprite 

Repair  to  some  small  fane  ("such  as  the  Gods 

Hear  poor  folks  from),  and  there  on  humble  knees 

Lift  up  her  trembling  hands  to  holy  Pan, 

And  beg  his  helps :  'tis  possible  to  think, 

ThatHeav'n,  which  holds  the  purest  vows  most  rich, 

May  not  permit  her  still  to  weep  in  vain, 

But  grant  her  wish,  (for,  would  the  Gods  not  hear 

The  prayers  of  poor  folks,  they'd  ne'er  bid  them  pray); 

And  so,  in  the  next  action,  happeneth  out 

(The  Gods  still  using  means)  the  Enemy 

May  be  defeated.    The  glory  of  all  this 

Is  attributed  to  the  General, 

And  none  but  he's  spoke  loud  of  for  the  act ; 

While  she,  from  whose  so  unaffected  tears 

His  laurel  sprung,  for  ever  dwells  unknown.* 


•  Is  it  possible  that  Cowper  might  have  remembered 
this  sentiment  in  his  description  of  the  advantages 
which  the  world,  that  scorns  him,  may  derive  from  the 
noiseless  hours  of  the  contemplative  man  ? 

Perhaps  she  owes 

Her  sunshine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 
And  plenteous  harvest,  to  the'prayer  he  makes, 
When,  Isaac-like,  the  solitary  saint 
Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  eventide  , 
And  think  on  her,  wno  tmnks  not  on  herself. 

Taslt. 


Unlau-ful  Soliciting*. 

When  I  first 

Mention'd  the  business  to  her  all  alone, 
Poor  Soul,  she  blush'd,  as  if  already  she 
Had  done  some  harm  by  hearing  of  me  speak  , 
Whilst  from  her  pretty  eyes  two  fountains  ran 
So  true,  so  native,  down  her  fairest  cheeks ; 
As  if  she  thought  herself  obliged  to  cry, 
'Cause  all  the  world  was  not  so  good  as  she. 


Proportion  in  Pity. 

There  must  be  some  proportion  still  to  pity 
Between  ourselves  and  what  we  moan  :  'tis  hard 
For  Men  to  be  ought  sensible,  how  Moats 
Press  Flies  to  death.    Should  the  Lion,  in 
His  midnight  walks  for  prey,  hear  some  poor  worms 
Complain  for  want  of  little  drops  of  dew. 
What  pity  could  that  generous  creature  have 
(Who  never  wanted  small  things)  for  those  poor 
Ambitions  ?  yet  these  are  their  concernments, 
And  but  for  want  of  these  they  pine  and  die. 


Modesty  a  bar  to  preferment. 

Sure  'twas  his  modesty.     He  might  have  thriven 
Much  better  possibly,  had  his  ambition 
Beta  greater  much.    They  oftimes  take  more  pains 
Who  look  for  Pins,  than  those  who  find  out  Stars. 


Innocence  vindicated  at  last. 

Heav'n  may  awhile  correct  the  virtuous ; 
Yet  it  will  wipe  their  eyes  again,  and  make 
Their  faces  whiter  with  their  tears.     Innocence 
Conceal'd  is  the  Stoln  Pleasure  of  the  Gods, 
Which  never  ends  in  shame,  as  that  of  Men 
Doth  oftimes  do ;  but  like  the  Sun  breaks  forth, 
When  it  hath  gratified  another  world  ; 
And  to  our  unexpecting  eyes  appears 
More  glorious  thro'  its  late  obscurity. 


Dying  for  a  Beloved  Person. 

There  is  a  gust  in  Death,  when  'tis  for  Love, 

That's  more  than  all  that's  taste  in  all  the  world. 

For  the  true  measure  of  true  Love  is  Death  ; 

And  what  falls  short  of  this,  was  never  Love  : 

And  therefore  when  those  tides  do  meet  and  strive 

And  both  swell  high,  but  Love  is  higher  still, 

This  is  the  truest  satisfaction  of 

The  perfectest  Love :  for  here  it  sees  itself 

Indure  the  highest  test;  and  then  it  feels 

The  sum  of  delectation,  since  it  now 

Attains  its  perfect  end  ;  and  shows  its  object, 

By  one  intense  act,  all  its  verity : 

Which  by  a  thousand  and  ten  thousand  words 

It  would  have  took  a  poor  dilated  pleasure 

To  have  imperfectly  cxpress'd. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK 


16" 


Urania  makes  a  mock  assignation  with 
the  King,  and  substitutes  the  Queen  in  her 
place.  The  King  describes  the  supposed 
meeting  to  the  Confident,  whom  he  had  em- 
ployed to  solicit  for  his  guilty  passion. 

Pyrrhus,  I'll  tell  thee  all.    When  now  the  night 

Grew  black  enough  to  hide  a  sculking  action ; 

And  Heav'n  had  ne'er  an  eye  unshut  to  see 

Her  Representative  on  Earth  creep  'mongst 

Those  poor  defenceless  worms,  whom  Nature  left 

An  humole  prey  to  every  thing,  and  no 

Asylum  but  the  dark  ;  I  softly  stole 

To  yonder  grotto  thro'  the  upper  walks, 

And  there  found  my  Urania.    But  I  found  her, 

I  found  her,  Pyrrhus,  not  a  Mistress,  but 

A  Goddess  rather ;  which  made  me  now  to  be 

No  more  her  Lover,  but  Idolater. 

She  only  whisper'd  to  me,  as  she  promised, 

Yet  never  heard  I  any  voice  so  loud ; 

And,  tho"  her  words  were  gentler  far  than  those 

That  holy  priests  do  speak  to  dying  Saints, 

Yet  never  thunder  signified  so  much. 

And  (what  did  more  impress  whate'er  she  said) 

Methought  her  whispers  were  my  injured  Quaen's, 

Her  manner  just  like  her's !  and  when  she  urged, 

Among  a  thousand  things,  the  injury 

I  did  the  faithful'st  Princess  in  the  world ; 

Who  now  supposed  me  sick,  and  was  perchance 

Upon  her  knees  offering  np  holy  vows 

For  him  who  mock'd  both  Heav'n  and  her,  and  was 

Now  breaking  of  that  vow  he  made  her,  when 

With  sacrifice  he  call'd  the  Gods  to  witness  : 

When  she  urged  this,  and  wept,  and  spake  so  like 

My  poor  deluded  Queen,  Pyrrhus,  I  trembled  ; 

Almost  persuaded  that  it  was  her  angel 

Spake  thro"  Urania's  lips,  who  for  her  sake 

Took  care  of  me,  as  something  she  much  loved. 

It  would  be  long  to  tell  thee  all  she  said, 

How  oft  she  sigh'd,  how  bitterly  she  wept : 

But  the  effect — Urania  still  is  chaste ; 

And  with  her  chaster  lips  hath  promised  to 

Invoke  blest  Heav'n  for  my  intended  sin." 

C.  L. 


THE  CUSHION  DANCE. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

The  concluding  dance  at  a  country  wake, 
or  other  general  meeting,  is  the  "  Cushion 
Dance ;"  and  if  it  be  not  called  for  when 
the  company  are  tired  with  dancing,  the 
fiddler,  who  has  an  interest  in  it  which  will 
be  seen  hereafter,  frequently  plays  the  tune 
to  remind  them  of  it.  A  young  man  of  the 
company  leaves  the  room ;  the  poor  young 
women,  uninformed  of  the  plot  against 
them,  suspecting  nothing  ;  but  he  no  sooner 
returns,  bearing  a  cushion  in  one  hand  and 
a  pewter  pot  in  the  other,  than  they  are 
aware  of  the  mischief  intended,  and  would 


certainly  make  their  escape,  had  not  the 
bearer  of  cushion  and  pot,  aware  of  the 
invincible  aversion  which  young  women 
have  to  be  saluted  by  young  men,  prevent- 
ed their  flight  by  locking  the  door,  and 
putting  the  key  in  his  pocket.  The  dance 
then  begins. 

The  young  man  advances  to  the  fiddler, 
drops  a  penny  in  the  pot,  and  gives  it  to 
one  of  his  companions ;  cushion  then 
dances  round  the  room,  followed  by  pot, 
and  when  they  again  reach  the  fiddler,  the 
cushion  says  in  a  sort  of  recitative,  accom- 
panied by  the  music,  "  This  dance  it  will 
no  farther  go." 

The  fiddler,  in  return,  sings  or  says,  for 
it  partakes  of  both,  "  I  pray,  kind  sir,  why 
say  you  so?" 

The  answer  is,  "  Because  Joan  Sander- 
son won't  come  to." 

"  But,"  replies  the  fiddler,  "  she  must 
come  to,  and  she  shall  come  to,  whether 
she  will  or  no." 

The  young  man,  thus  armed  with  the 
authority  of  the  village  musician,  recom- 
mences his  dance  round  the  room,  but  stops 
when  he  comes  to  the  girl  he  likes  best, 
and  drops  the  cushion  at  her  feet ;  she  ruts 
her  penny  in  the  pewter  pot,  and  kneels 
down  with  the  young  man  on  the  cushion, 
and  he  salutes  her. 

When  they  rise,  the  woman  takes  up  the 
cushion,  and  leads  the  dance,  the  man  fol- 
lowing, and  holding  the  skirt  of  her  gown; 
and  having  made  the  circuit  of  the  room, 
they  stop  near  the  fiddler,  and  the  same 
dialogue  is  repeated,  except,  as  it  is  now 
the  woman  who  speaks,  it  is  John  Sander- 
son who  won't  come  to,  and  the  fiddler's 
mandate  is  issued  to  him,  not  her. 

The  woman  drops  the  cushion  at  the 
feet  of  her  favourite  man ;  the  same  cere- 
mony and  the  same  dance  are  repeated, 
till  every  man  and  woman,  the  pot  bearer 
last,  has  been  taken  out,  and  all  have 
danced  round  the  room  in  a  file. 

The  pence  are  the  perquisite  of  the^id- 
dler, 

H.  N. 

P.S.  There  is  a  description  of  this  dauce 
in  Miss  Hutton's  "  Oakwood  Hall." 


THE  CUSHION  DANCE. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

"  Saltabamus." 
The  village-green  is  clear  and  digh* 

Under  the  starlight  sky ; 
Joy  in  the  cottage  reigns  to  night. 
And  brightens  every  e/e : 


I<53 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


16* 


The  peasants  of  the  valley  meet 

Their  labours  to  advance. 
And  many  a  lip  invites  a  treat 

To  celebrate  the  "  Cushion  Dance." 

A  pillow  in  the  room  they  hide, 

The  door  they  slily  lock; 
The  bold  the  basbfnl  damsels  chide, 

Whose  heart's-piilse  seem  to  rock : 
"  Escape  ?" — "  Not  yet  I — no  key  is  found  !" — 

"  Of  course,  'tis  lost  by  chance  ;" — 
And  flutt'ring  whispers  breathe  around 

"  The  Cushion  Dance  I— The  Cushion  Dance  I1 

The  fiddler  in  a  corner  stands, 

H«  (fives,  he  roles  the  game  ; 
A  rustic  takes  a  maiden's  hands 

Whose  cheek  is  red  with  shame : 
At  custom's  shrine  they  seal  their  truth, 

Love  fails  not  here  to  glance ; — 
Happy  the  heart  that  beats  in  youth, 

And  dances  in  the  "  Cushion  Dance  I" 

The  pillow's  carried  round  and  round, 

The  fiddler  speaks  and  plays  ; 
The  choice  is  made, — the  charm  is  wound, 

And  parleys  conquer^  nays  : — 

For  shame  I  I  will  not  thus  be  kiss'd, 

Your  beard  cuts  like  a  lance ; 
Leave  off — I'm  sure  you've  sprained  my  wrist 

By  kneeling  iu  this  '  Cushion  Dance  I" " 

"  'Tis  aunt's  turn, — what  in  tears? — I  thought 

You  dearly  loved  a  joke ; 
Kisses  are  sweeter  stol'n  than  bought, 

And  vows  are  sometimes  broke. 
Play  up  I — play  up  I — aunt  chooses  Ben ; 

Ben  loves  so  sweet  a  trance  I 
Robin  to  Nelly  kneels  again, 

— Is  Lore  not  in  the  '  Cushion  dance  ?' " 

Laughter  is  busy  at  the  heart, 

Cupid  looks  through  the  eye, 
Feeling  is  dear  when  sorrows  part 

And  plaintive  comfort's  nigh, 
"  Hide  not  in  corners,  Betsy,  pray," 

"  Do  not  so  colt-like  prance ; 
One  kiss,  for  memory's  future  day, 

— Is  Life  not  like  a  '  Cushion  Dance  ?'  " 

"  This  Danoe  it  will  no  further  go  I" 

"  Why  say  you  thus,  good  man?" 
"  Joan  Sanderson  will  not  come  to  I" 

*  She  must, — 'tis  '  Custom's'  plan  :" 
"  Whether  she  will  or  no,  must  she 

The  proper  course  advance  ; 
Blushes,  like  blossoms  on  a  tree, 

Are  lovely  in  the  '  Cushion  Daice.'  ' 

•  This  Dance  it  will  no  further  go  I" 

"  Why  say  you  thus,  good  lady?" 
"  John  Sanderson  will  not  come  to  1"       • 

"  Fie,  John !  the  Cushion's  ready  :" 
"  He  must  come  to,  he  shall  come  to, 

'Tis  Mirth's  right  throne  plrasance ; 
How  dear  the  scene,  in  Nature's  view 

To  -fVtn  in  a  '  Cushion  Dance  1'  " 


"  Ho  I  princnm  prancnm  !" — lave  is  blart , 

Both  Joan  and  John  submit ; 
Friends  smiling  gathsr  round  and  rest, 

And  sweethearts  closely  sit; — 
Their  feet  and  spirits  languid  grown, 

Eyes,  bright  in  silence,  glance 
Like  suns  on  seeds  of  beauty  sown, 

And  nourish'd  ia  the  "  Cushion  Dance. 

In  times  to  come,  when  older  we 

Have  children  round  our  knees  ; 
How  will  our  hearts  rejoice  to  see 

Their  lips  and  eyes  at  ease. 
Talk  ye  of  Swiss  in  valley-streams, 

Of  joyous  pairs  in  France ; 
None  of  their  hopes-delighting  dreams 

Are  equal  to  the  "  Cushion  Dance." 

'Twas  here  my  Maiden's  love  I  drew 

By  the  hushing  of  her  bosom ; 
She  knelt,  her  mouth  and  press  were  true. 

And  sweet  as  rose's  blossom : — 
E'er  since,  though  onward  we  to  glory. 

And  cares  our  lives  enhance. 
Reflection  dearly  tells  the  "  story'1 — 

Hail  I — hail  I — thou  "  happy  Cushion  Danoe." 

J.  R.  PRIOR, 

Islington. 


ST.  SEPULCHRE'S  BELL. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

On  the  right-hand  side  of  the   altar   of 
St.  Sepulchre's  church   is  a  board,  with  a 
list  of  charitable  donations  and  gifts,  con 
taining  the  following  item  : — 

£.  *.   d- 
1605.    Mr.  Robert  Dowe  gave  50  0  0 

for  ringing  the   greatest 

bell  in  this  church  on  the 

day  the  condemned  prU 

soners  are  executed,  and 

for    other   services,   for 

ever,     concerning     such 

condemned  prisoners,  for 

which  services  the  sexton 

is  paid  £l .  6s.  Qd. 

Looking  over  an  old  volume  of  the  New- 
gate Calendar,  I  found  some  elucidation  of 
this  inscription.  In  a  narrative  of  the  case 
of  Stephen  Gardner,  (who  was  executed 
at  Tyburn,  February  3, 1 724,)  it  is  related 
that  a  person  said  to  Gardner,  when  he  was 
set  at  liberty  on  a  former  occasion,  "  Be- 
ware how  you  come  here  again,  or  tlie 
bellman  will  certainly  say  his  verses  ove> 
you."  On  this  saying  there  is  the  follow- 
ing  remark  : — 

"  It  has  been  a  very  ancient  practice,  on 
the  night  preceding  the  execution  of  con- 


J65 


Hit     ABLE  BOOR. 


166 


<leraned  criminals,  for  the  bellman  of  the 
parish  of  St.  Sepulchre,  to  go  under  New- 
gale, and,  ringing  his  bell,  to  repeat  the 
following  verses,  as  a  piece  of  friendly 
advice  to  the  unhappy  wretches  under  sen- 
tence of  death : — 

All  you  that  in  the  condemn'd  hold  do  lie, 
Prepare  you,  for  to-morrow  you  shall  die ; 
Watch  all,  and  pray,  the  hour  is  drawing  near, 
That  you  before  the  Almighty  must  appear : 
Examine  well  yourselves,  in  time  repent, 
That  you  may  not  to  eternal  flames  be  sent. 
And  when  St.  Sepulchre's  bell  to-morrow  tolls, 
The  Lord  above'have  mercy  on  your  souls  ! 

Past  twelve  o'clock  ! 

In  the  following  extract  from  Stowe's 
London,*  it  will  be  shown  that  the  above 
verses  ought  to  be  repeated  by  a  clergy- 
man, instead  of  a  bellman  : — 

"  Robert  Doue,  citizen  and  merchant  tay- 
lor,  of  London,  gave  to  the  parish  church  of 
St.  Sepulchres,  the  somme  of  £50.  That  after 
the  several  sessions  of  London,  when  the 
prisoners  remain  in  the  gaole,  as  condemn- 
ed men  to  death,  expecting  execution  on 
the  morrow  following  :  the  clarke  (that  is 
the  parson)  of  the  church  shoold  come  in 
the  night  time,  and  likewise  early  in  the 
morning,  to  the  window  of  the  prison  where 
they  lye,  and  there  ringing  certain  toles 
with  a  hand-bell  appointed  for  the  purpose, 
he  doth  afterwards  (in  most  Christian  man- 
ner) put  them  in  mind  of  their  present 
condition,  and  ensuing  execution,  desiring 
them  to  be  prepared  therefore  as  they 
ought  to  be.  When  they  are  in  the  cart, 
and  brought  before  the  wall  of  the  church, 
there  he  standeth  ready  with  the  same  bell, 
and,  after  certain  toles,  rehearseth  an  ap- 
pointed praier,  desiring  all  the  people 
there  present  to  pray  for  them.  The  beadle 
also  of  Merchant  Taylors'  Hall  hath  an 
honest  stipend  allowed  to  see  that  this  is 
duely  done." 

Probably  the  discontinuance  of  this  prac- 
tice commenced  when  malefactors  were 
first  executed  at  Newgate,  in  lieu  of  Ty- 
burn. The  donation  most  certainly  refers 
to  the  verses.  What  the  "  other  services  " 
are  which  the  donor  intended  to  be  done,  and 
for  which  the  sexton  is  paid  £l.  6*.  8d., 
?nd  which  are  to  be  "for  ever"  I  do  not 
know,  but  I  presume  those  services  (or 
some  other)  are"  now  continued,  as  the 
board  which  contains  the  donation  seems 
to  me  to  have  been  newly  painted. 

EDWIN  S — . 
Carthusian-street,  Jan.  1827. 

•  P»ge  25  of  the  quarto  edition.  1618v 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  RED  KING 

"  Come,  listen  to  a  tale  of  times  of  old ; 

Come,  for  ye  know  me."  SOUTHZY. 


Who  is  it  that  rides  thro*  the  forest  so  green, 

And  gazes  with  joy  on  the  beautiful  scene, 

With  the  gay  prancing  war-horse,  and  helmeted  head  ? 

'Tis  the  monarch  of  England,  stern  William  the  Red  . 

Why  starts  the  proud  courser  ?  what  vision  is  there  ? 
The  trees  are  scarce  mov'd  by  the  still  breathing  air — 
All  is  hush'd,  save  the  wild  bird  that  carols  on  high, 
Die  forest  bee's  hum,  and  the  rivulet's  sigh. 

Bat,  lo  1  a  dark  form  o'er  the  pathway  hath  lean  d 
'Tis  the  druid  of  Malwood,  the  wild  forest-fiend 
The  terror  of  youth,  of  the  aged  the  fev-~ 
The  prophet  of  Cadenham,  the  death- boding  seer  ! 

His  garments  were  black  as  the  night-raven's  plume. 
His  features  were  veil'd  in  mysterious  gloom, 
His  lean  arm  was  awfully  rais'd  while  he  said, 
"  Well  met,  England's  monarch,   stem  William  th* 
Red! 

"  Desolation,  death,  ruin,  the  mighty  shall  fall- 
Lamentation  and  woe  reign  in  Malwood's  wide  hall ! 
Those  leaves  shall  all  fade  in  the  winter's  rude  blast. 
And  thou  shalt  lie  low  ere  the  winter  be  past'"' 

••  Thou  liest,  vile  caitiff,  'tis  false,  by  the  rood, 
For  know  that  the  contract  is  seal'd  with  my  blood, 
•'Tis  written,  I  never  shall  sleep  in  the  tomb 
Till  Cadenham's  oak  in  the  winter  shall  bloom  ! 

"  Bat  say  what  art  thou,  strange,  unsearchable  thing, 
That  dares  to  speak  treason,  and  waylay  a  king?"- 
"  Know,  monarch.  I  dwell  in  the  beautiful  bowers 
Of  Eden,  and  poison  I  shed  o'er  the  flowers. 

"  In  darkness  and  storm  o'er  the  ocean  I  sail, 
I  ride  on  the  breath  of  the  night-rolling  gale— 
I  dwell  in  Vesuvius,  'mid  torrents  of  flame. 
Unriddle  my  riddle,  and  tell  me  my  name  I" 

O  pale  grew  the  monarch,  and  smote  on  his  breast, 
For  who  was  the  prophet  he  wittingly  guess'd  : 
"  O,  Jesu-AIaria  I"  he  tremblingly  said, 
"  Bona  Virgo  I" — he  gazed — but  the  vision  had  fled 

'Tis  winter — the  trees  of  the  forest  are  bare, 
How  keenly  is  blowing  the  chilly  night  air ! 
The  moonbeams  shine  brightly  on  hard-frozen  flood. 
And  William  is  riding  thro'  Cadenham's  wood. 

Why  looks  he  with  dread  on  the  blasted  oak  tree  ? 
Saint  Swithin  !  what  is  it  the  monarch  can  see  ? 
Prophetical  sight  1  'mid  the  desolate  scene, 
The  oak  is  array'd  in  the  freshest  of  green  I 

He  thonght  of  the  contract,   "  Thou'rt  safe  from  the 

tomb, 

Till  Cadenham's  oak  in  the  winter  shall  bloom;" 
He  thought  of  the  Jruirt — "  The  mighty  shall  fait 
Lamentation  and  woe  reign  in  Malwood't  ttiAt  h.aii.." 


167 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


163 


As  he  stood  near  the  tree,  lo !  a  swift  flying  dart 
Hath  struck  the  proud  monarch,  and  pierc'd  thro'  his 

heart ; 

Twas  the  deed  of  a  friend,  not  the  deed  of  a  foe, 
For  the  arrow  was  aim'd  at  the  breast  of  a  roe. 

In  Malwood  is  silent  the  light-hearted  glee, 
The  dance  and  the  wassail,  and  wild  revelrie ; 
Its  chambers  are  dreary,  deserted,  and  lone, 
And  the  day  of  its  greatness  for  ever  hath  flown. 

A  weeping  is  heard  in  Saint  Swithin's  huge  pile — 
"  Dies  Ira?'  resounds  thro"  the  sable-dight  aisle — 
'Tis  a  dirge  for  the  mighty,  the  mass  for  t'ae  dead — 
The  funeral  anthem  for  William  the  Red  ! 

AQUILA. 


DESCRIBED  BY  A  WRITER  IN  1634. 

I  will  first  take  a  survey  of  the  long-con- 
tinued deformity  in  the  shape  of  your  city, 
which  is  of  your  buildings. 

Sure  your  ancestors  contrived  your  nar- 
row streets  in  the  days  of  wheel-barrows, 
before  those  greater  engines,  carts,  were 
invented.  Is  your  climate  so  hot,  that  as 
you  walk  you  need  umbrellas  of  tiles  to 
intercept  the  sun  ?  or  are  your  shambles  so 
empty,  that  you  are  afraid  to  take  in  fresh 
air,  lest  it  should  sharpen  your  stomachs  ? 
Oh,  the  goodly  landscape  of  Old  Fish- 
street  !  which,  if  it  had  not  the  ill  luck  to 
be  crooked,  was  narrow  enough  to  have 
been  your  founder's  perspective ;  and  where 
the  garrets,  perhaps  not  for  want  of  archi- 
tecture, but  through  abundance  of  amity, 
are  so  narrow,  that  opposite  neighbours 
may  shake  hands  without  stirring  from 
home.  Is  unanimity  of  inhabitants  in  wide 
cities  better  exprest  than  by  their  coher- 
ence and  uniformity  of  building,  where 
streets  begin,  continue,  and  end,  in  a  like 
stature  and  shape  ?*  But  yours,  as  if  they 
were  raised  in  a  general  resurrection,  where 
every  man  hath  a  several  design,  differ  in 
all  things  that  can  make  a  distinction. 
Here  stands  one  that  aims  to  be  a  palace, 
and  next  it,  one  that  professes  to  be  a 
hovel ;  here  a  giant,  there  a  dwarf;  here 
slender,  there  broad ;  and  all  most  admi- 
rably different  in  faces,  as  well  as  in  their 
height  and  bulk.  I  was  about  to  defy  any 
Londoner,  who  dares  to  pretend  there  is  so 
much  ingenious  correspondence  in  this 
vity,  as  that  he  can  show  me  one  house  like 


*  If  a  disagreement  of  neighbours  were  to  be  inferred 
from  such  a  circumstance,  wh;it  but  an  unfavourable 
inference  would  be  drawn  from  our  modern  style  of 
a'chitecture,  as  exemplified  in  Regent-street,  where  the 
lious's  are,  as  the  leopard's  spots  are  described  to  be, 
"  vn  >wo  alike,  and  every  om»  different." 


another ;  yet  your  houses  seem  to  be  re- 
versed and  formal,  being  compared  to  the 
fantastical  looks  of  the  moderns,  which 
have  more  ovals,  niches,  and  angles,  than 
in  your  custards,  and  are  enclosed  with 
pasteboard  walls,  like  those  of  malicious 
Turks,  who,  because  themselves  are  not  im- 
mortal, and  cannot  dwell  for  ever  where 
they  build,  therefore  wish  not  to  be  at 
charge  to  provide  such  lastingness  as  may 
entertain  their  children  out  of  the  rain ;  so 
slight  and  prettily  gaudy,  that  if  they  could 
move,  they  would  pass  for  pageants.  It  is 
your  custom,  where  men  vary  often  the 
mode  of  their  habits,  to  term  the  nation 
fantastical ;  but  where  streets  continually 
change  fashion,  you  should  make  haste  to 
chain  up  your  city,  for  it  is  certainly  mad. 

You  would  think  me  a  malicious  tra- 
veller, if  I  should  still  gaze  on  your  mis- 
shapen streets,  and  take  no  notice  of  the 
beauty  of  your  river,  therefore  I  will  pass 
the  importunate  noise  of  your  watermen, 
(who  snatch  at  fares,  as  if  they  were  to 
catch  prisoners,  plying  the  gentry  so  unci- 
villy, as  if  they  had  never  rowed  any 
other  passengers  than  bear-wards,)  and 
now  step  into  one  of  your  peascod-boats, 
whose  tilts  are  not  so  sumptuous  as  the 
roofs  of  gondolas;  nor,  when  you  are  within, 
are  you  at  the  ease  of  a  chaine-d-brus. 

The  commodity  and  trade  of  your  river 
belong  to  yourselves  ;  but  give  a  stranger 
leave  to  share  in  the  pleasure  of  it,  which 
will  hardly  be  in  the  prospect  and  freedom 
of  air ;  unless  prospect,  consisting  of 
variety,  be  made  up  with  here  a  palace, 
there  a  wood-yard;  here  a  garden,  there 
a  brewhouse ;  here  dwells  a  lord,  there  a 
dyer ;  and  betweei.  both,  duomo  commune. 

If  freedom  of  air  be  inferred  in  the  liberty 
of  the  subject,  where  every  private  man 
hath  authority,  for  his  own  profit,  to  smoke 
up  a  magistrate,  then  the  air  of  your 
Thames  is  open  enough,  because  it  is 
equally  free.  I  will  forbear  to  visit  your 
courtly  neighbours  at  Wapping,  not  that 
it  will  make  me  giddy  to  shoot  your  bridge, 
but  that  I  am  loath  to  describe  the  civil 
silence  at  Billingsgate,  which  is  so  great, 
as  if  the  mariners  were  always  landing  to 
storm  the  harbour ;  therefore,  for  brevity's 
sake,  I  will  put  to  shore  again,  though  I 
should  be  so  constrained,  even  without  my 
galoshes,  to  land  at  Puddle-dock. 

I  am  now  returned  to  visit  your  houses 
where  the  roofs  are  so  low,  that  I  presumed 
your  ancestors  were  very  mannerly,  and 
stood  bare  to  their  wives ;  for  1  cannot  dis- 
cern how  they  could  wear  their  high- 
crowned  hats  :  yet  I  will  enter,  and  therein 


C9 


THt   TABLE  BOOK. 


170 


oblige  you  much,  wnen  you  know  my  aver- 
sion to  a  certain  weed  that  governs  amongst 
your  coarser  acquaintance,  as  much  as 
lavender  among  your  coarser  linen;  to 
which,  in  my  apprehension,  your  sea-coal 
Jmoke  seems  a  very  Portugal  perfume.  I 
thould  here  hasten  to  a  period,  for  fear  of 
Suffocation,  if  I  thought  you  so  ungracious 
as  to  use  it  in  public  assemblies ;  and  yet  I 
See  it  grow  so  much  in  fashion,  that  me- 
fliinks  your  children  begin  to  play  with 
6roken  pipes  instead  of  corals,  to  make 
way  for  their  teeth.  You  will  find  my 
visit  short ;  I  cannot  stay  to  eat  with  you, 
because  your  bread  is  too  heavy,  and  you 
distrain  the  light  substance  of  herbs.  Your 
drink  is  too  thick,  and  yet  you  are  seldom 
over  curious  in  washing  your  glasses.  Nor 
will  I  lodge  with  you,  because  your  beds 
seem  no  bigger  than  coffins ;  and  your  cur- 
tains so  short,  as  they  will  hardly  serve  to 
enclose  your  carriers  in  summer,  and  may 
be  held,  if  taffata,  to  have  lined  your  grand- 
sire's  skirts. 

I  have  now  left  your  houses,  and  am 
passing  through  your  streets,  but  not  in  a 
coach,  for  they  are  uneasily  hung,  and  so 
narrow,  that  I  took  them  for  sedans  upon 
wheels.  Nor  is  it  safe  for  a  stranger  to  use 
them  till  the  quarrel  be  decided,  whether 
six  of  your  nobles,  sitting  together,  shall 
stop  and  give  way  to  as  many  barrels  of 
beer.  Your  city  is  the  only  metropolis 
in  Europe,  where  there  is  wonderful  dignity 
belonging  to  carts. 

I  would  now  make  a  safe  retreat,  but 
that  methinks  t  am  stopped  by  one  of  your 
heroic  games  called  foot-ball ;  which  I  con- 
ceive (under  your  favour)  not  very  conve- 
niently civil  in  the  streets,  especially  in 
such  irregular  and  narrow  roads  as  Crooked- 
lane.  Yet  it  argues  your  courage,  much 
like  your  military  pastime  of  throwing  at 
cocks ;  but  your  metal  would  be  much 
magnified  (since  you  have  long  allowed 
those  two  valiant  exercises  in  the  streets) 
were  you  to  draw  your  archers  from  Fins- 
bury,  and,  during  high  market,  let  them 
shoot  at  butts  in  Cheapside.  I  have  now 
no  more  to  say,  but  what  refers  to  a  few 
private  notes,  which  I  shall  give  yeu  in  a 
whisper,  when  we  meet  in  Moorfields,  from 
whence  (because  the  place  was  meant  for 
public  pleasure,  and  to  show  the  munifi- 
cence of  your  city)  I  shall  desire  you  to 
banish  your  laundresses  and  bleachers,\vhose 
acres  of  old  linen  make  a  show  like  the 
fields  of  Carthagena,  when  the  five  months' 
shifts  of  the  whole  fleet  are  washed  and 
spread.* 

•  Sir  W.  Davenant. 


A  FATHER'S  HOME. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

When  oppress'd  by  the  world,  or  fatigu'd  will  its 
charms, 

My  weary  steps  homeward  I  tread — 
'Tis  there,  midst  the  prattlers  that  fly  to  my  arms, 

I  enjoy  purer  pleasures  instead. 
Hark !  the  rap  at  the  door  is  known  as  their  dad's, 

And  rushing  at  once  to  the  lock, 
Wide  open  it  flies,  while  the  lasses  and  lads 

Bid  me  welcome  as  chief  of  the  flock. 
Little  baby  himself  leaves  the  breast  for  a  gaze 

Glad  to  join  in  th"  general  joy, 
While  with  outstretched  arms  and  looks  of  amaze 

He  seizes  the  new  purchas'd  toy. 
Then  Harry,  the  next,  climbs  the  knee  to  engage 

His  father's  attention  again ; 
But  Bob,  springing  forward  almost  in  a  rage, 

Resolves  his  own  rights  to  maintain. 
Oh,  ye  vot'ries  of  pleasure  and  folly's  sad  crew. 

From  your  midnight  carousals  depart  I 
Look  here  for  true  joys,  ever  blooming  and  new. 

When  I  press  both  these  boys  to  my  heart. 
Poor  grimalkin  purs  softly — the  tea-kettle  sings, 

Midst  glad  faces  and  innocent  hearts, 
Encircling  my  table  as  happy  as  kings, 

Right  merrily  playing  their  parts. 

And  Bill  (the  sly  rogue)  takes  a  lump,  when  he's  able, 

Of  sugar,  so  temptingly  sweet, 
And,  archly  observing,  hides  under  the  table 

The  spoil,  till  he's  ready  to  eat. 

While  George,  the  big  boy,  talks  of  terrible  "  sums" 

He  perform'd  so  correctly  at  school; 
Bill  leeringly  tells,  with  his  chin  on  his  thumbs, 

"  He  was  whipt  there  for  playing  the  fool  I" 
This  raises  a  strife,  till  in  choleric  mood 

Each  ventures  a  threat  to  his  brother, 
But  their  hearts  are  so  good,  let  a  stranger  intrude, 

They'd  fight  to  the  last  for  each  other 
There  Nan,  the  sweet  girl,  she  that  fags  for  the  while, 

And  keeps  the  young  urchins  in  oider, 
Exhibits,  with  innocence  charmins;  the  soul, 

Her  sister's  fine  sampler  and  border. 
Kitty  sings  to  me  gaily,  then  chatting  apace 

Helps  her  mother  to  darn  or  to  stitch, 
Reminding  me  most  of  that  gay  laughing  face 

Which  once  did  my  fond  heart  bewitch. 
While  she  1  the  dear  partner  of  all  my  delight. 

Contrives  them  some  innocent  play  ; 
Till,  tired  of  ajl,  in  the  silence  of  night, 

They  dream  the  glad  moments  away. 
Oh,  long  may  such  fire-side  scenes  be  my  lot  I 

Ye  children,  be  virtuous  and  true  I 
And  think  when  I'm  aged,  alone  in  my  cot. 

How  I  minister'd  comfort  to  you. 
When  my  vigour  is  gone,  and  to  manhood's  estate 

Ye  all  shall  be  happily  grown, 
Live  near  me,  and,  anxious  for  poor  father's  fate 

Show  the  world  that  you're  truly  mv  -wn. 


Till-,  TABLE  BOOK. 


£>tanmore 


Its  ornamental  look,  and  public  use, 
Combine  to  render  it  worth  observation. 


Our  new  toll-houses  are  deservedly  the 
lubject  of  frequent  remark,  on  account  of 
their  beauty.  The  preceding  engraving  is 
intended  to  convey  an  idea  of  Stanmore- 
gate,  which  is  one  of  the  handsomest  near 
London.  The  top  is  formed  into  a  large 
lantern  ;  when  illuminated,  it  is  an  im- 
portant mark  to  drivers  in  dark  nights. 

It  may  be  necessary  to  add,  that  the  pre- 
sent representation  was  not  destined  to 
appear  in  this  place  ;  but  the  indisposition 
of  a  gentleman  engaged  to  assist  in  illus- 
trating this  work,  has  occasioned  a  sudden 
disappointment. 


"  STATUTES  "  AND  "  MOPS.* 
To  the  Editor. 

Sii", — Although  your  unique  and  curious 
work,  the  Every-Day  Book,  abounds  with 
very  ir.teresting  accounts  of  festivals,  fairs, 
way  ja*ls,  wakes,  and  other  particulars  con- 
r«7,ii.igour  country  manners,  and  will  be 
ytf.i.d  by  future  generations  as  a  rare  and 


valuable  collection  of  the  pastimes  and 
customs  of  their  forefathers,  still  much  of 
the  same  nature  remains  to  be  related  j 
and  as  I  am  anxious  that  the  Country 
Statute,  or  Mop,  (according  to  the  version 
of  the  country  people  generally,)  should  be 
snatched  from  oblivion,  I  send  you  a  de- 
scription of  this  custom,  which,  I  hope,  will 
be  deemed  worthy  a  place  in  the  Table 
Book.  I  had  waited  to  see  if  some  one 
more  competent  to  a  better  account  than 
myself  would  achieve  the  task,  when  that 
short  but  significant  word  FINIS,  attached 
to  the  Every-Day  Book,  arouses  me  from 
further  delay,  and  I  delineate,  as  well  as  I 
am  able,  scenes  which,  but  for  that  work, 
I  possibly  should  have  never  noticed. 

Some  months  ago  I  solicited  the  assist- 
ance of  a  friend,  a  respectable  farmer, 
residing  at  Wootton,  in  Warwickshire,  who 
not  only  very  readily  promised  to  give  me 
every  information  he  possessed  on  the  sub- 
ject, but  proposed  that  I  should  pass  a 
week  at  his  farm  at  the  time  these  Statutes 
were  holding.  So  valuable  an  opportuniU 


173 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


174 


of  visiting  them  and  making  my  own  obser- 
vations, I,  of  course,  readily  embraced.  Be- 
fere  I  proceed  to  lay  before  you  the  results, 
it  may  be  as  well,  perhaps,  to  give  some- 
ihing  like  a  definition  of  the  name  applied 
to  this  peculiar  custom,  as  also  when  and 
for  what  purpose  the  usage  was  established. 
*  Statutes,"  or  "  Statute  Sessions,"  otherwise 
called  "  Petit  Sessions,"  are  meetings,  in 
every  hundred  of  each  shire  in  England  where 
they  are  held,  to  which  the  constables  and 
others,  both  householders  and  servants, 
repair  for  the  determining  of  differences 
between  masters  and  servants ;  the  rating, 
by  the  sheriff  or  magistrates,  of  wages  for 
the  ensuing  year ;  and  the  bestowing  of 
such  people  in  service  as  are  able  to 
serve,  and  refuse  to  seek,  or  cannot  get 
masters. 

The  first  act  of  parliament  for  regulating 
servants'  wages  passed  in  the  year  1351, 
25th  Edward  II  I.  At  an  early  period 
labourers  were  serfs,  or  slaves,  and  con- 
sequently there  was  no  law  upon  the  sub- 
ject. The  immediate  cause  of  the  act  of 
Edward  III.  was  that  plague  which  wasted 
Europe  from  1347  to  1349,  and  destroyed 
a  great  proportion  of  its  inhabitants.  The 
consequent  scarcity  of  labourers,  and  the 
high  price  demanded  for  labour,  caused 
those  who  employed  them  to  obtain  legis- 
lative enactments,  imposing  fines  on  all 
who  gave  or  accepted  more  than  a  stipu- 
lated sum.  Since  that  period  there  have 
been  various  regulations  of  a  similar  nature. 
By  the  13th  of  Richard  II.  the  justices  of 
every  county  were  to  meet  once  a  year, 
between  Easter  and  Michaelmas,  to  regu- 
late, according  to  circumstances,  the  rates 
of  wages  of  agricultural  servants  for  the 
year  ensuing,  and  cause  the  same  to  be 
proclaimed.  But  though  this  power  was 
confirmed  to  the  justices  by  the  5th  of 
Elizabeth,  this  part  of  the  custom  of  Sta- 
tute Sessions  is  almost,  if  not  quite,  fallen 
into  disuse.  It  is  probable  that  in  the  years 
immediately  succeeding  the  first  enactment 
the  population  was  so  restored  as  to  cause  the 
laws  to  be  relaxed,  though  they  still  remain 
as  an  example  of  the  wisdom  of  past  ages. 
However  this  may  be,  it  is  certain,  that  all 
that  is  at  present  understood  by  "Statutes," 
or,  as  the  vulgar  call  them,  "  Mops,"  is  the 
assembling  of  masters  and  servants,  the  for- 
mer to  seek  the  latter,  and  the  latter  to 
obtain  employment  of  the  former.  It  is  un- 
doubtedly a  mutual  accommodation  ;  for 
although  the  servants  now  rate  and  ask  what 
wages  they  think  fit,  still  they  have  an 
oppoitunity  of  knowing  how  wages  are 
us^aiij  gome',  and  the  masters  have  hun- 


dreds,  and,  in  some  cases,   thousands  of 
servants  to  choose  from. 

The  "  Statute''  I  first  attended  was  held 
at  Studley,  in  Warwickshire,  at  the  latter 
end  of  September.  On  arriving,  between 
twelve  and  one  o'clock,  at  the  part  of  the 
Alcester  road  where  the  assembly  was  held, 
the  place  was  filling  very  fast  by  groups  of 
persons  of  almost  all  descriptions  from 
every  quarter.  Towards  three  o'clock  there 
must  have  been  many  thousands  present. 
The  appearance  of  the  whole  may  be  pretty 
accurately  portrayed  to  the  mind  of  those 
who  have  witnessed  a  country  fair;  the 
sides  of  the  roads  were  occupied  with  stalls 
for  gingerbread,  cakes,  &c.,  general  assort- 
ments of  hardware,  japanned  goods,  wag- 
goner's frocks,  and  an  endless  variety  of 
wearing  apparel,  suitable  to  every  class, 
from  the  farm  bailiff,  or  dapper  footman, 
to  the  unassuming  ploughboy,  or  day-la- 
bourer. 

The  public-houses  were  thoroughly  full, 
not  excepting  even  the  private  chambers. 
The  scene  out  of  doors  was  enlivened,  here 
and  there,  by  some  wandering  minstrel,  or 
fiddler,  round  whom  stood  a  crowd  of  men 
and  boys,  who,  at  intervals,  eagerly  joined 
to  swell  the  chorus  of  the  song.  Although 
there  was  as  large  an  assemblage  ,as  could 
be  well  remembered,  both  of  masters  and 
servants,  I  was  given  to  understand  that 
there  was  very  little  hiring.  This  might 
happen  from  a  twofold  cause ;  first,  on  ac- 
count of  its  being  one  of  the  early  Statutes, 
and,  secondly,  from  the  circumstance  of  the 
servants  asking  what  was  deemed  (consi- 
dering the  pressure  of  the  times)  exorbitant 
wages.  The  servants  were,  for  the  most 
part,  bedecked  in  their  best  church-going 
clothes.  The  men  also  wore  clean  white 
frocks,and  carried  in  their  hats  some  emblem 
or  insignia  of  the  situation  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  or  were  desirous  to  fill :  for 
instance,  a  waggoner,  or  ploughboy,  had  a 
piece  of  whipcord  in  his  hat,  some  of  it 
ingeniously  plaited  in  a  variety  of  ways 
and  entwined  round  the  hatband ;  a  cow- 
man, after  the  same  manner,  had  some 
cow-hair  ;  and  to  those  already  mentioned 
there  was  occasionally  added  a  piece  of 
sponge ;  a  shepherd  had  wool ;  a  gardener 
had  flowers,  &c.  &c. 

The  girls  wishing  to  be  hired  were  in  a 
spot  apart  from  the  men  and  boys,  and  all 
stood  not  unlike  cattle  at  a  fair  waiting  for 
dealers.  Some  of  them  held  their  hands  be- 
fore them,  with  one  knee  protruding,  (like 
soldiers  standing  at  ease,)  and  never  spoke, 
save  when  catechised  and  examined  by  3 
master  or  mistress  as  to  the  work  they  J»3| 


175 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


176 


been  accustomed  to ;  and  then  you  would 
scarce  suppose  they  had  learned  to  say 
anything  but  "  Ees,  sur,"  or  "  No,  sur," 
for  these  were  almost  the  only  expressions 
that  fell  from  their  lips.  Others,  on  the 
contrary,  exercised  no  small  degree  of  self- 
sufficient  loquacity  concerning  their  abili- 
ties, which  not  unusually  consisted  of  a  good 
proportion  of  main  strength,  or  being  able 
to  drive  or  follow  a  variety  of  kinds  of 
plough.  Where  a  master  or  mistress  was 
engaged  in  conversation  with  a  servant 
they  were  usually  surrounded  by  a  group, 
with  their  mouths  extended  to  an  angle  of 
near  forty-five  degrees,  as  if  to  catch  the 
sounds  at  the  aperture ;  this  in  some,  per- 
haps, was  mere  idle  curiosity,  in  others, 
from  desire  to  know  the  wages  asked  and 
given,  as  a  guide  for  themselves.  I  observ- 
ed a  seeming  indifference  about  the  servants 
in  securing  situations.  They  appeared  to 
require  a  certain  sum  for  wages,  without 
reference  to  any  combination  of  circum- 
stances or  the  state  of  the  times ;  and  how- 
ever exorbitant,  they  rarely  seemed  dispos- 
ed to  meet  the  master  by  proposing  some- 
thing lower ;  they  would  stand  for  some 
time  and  hear  reasons  why  wages  should 
be  more  moderate,  and  at  the  conclusion, 
when  you  would  suppose  they  were  either 
willing,  in  some  measure,  to  accede  to  the 
terms,  or  to  offer  reasons  why  they  should 
not,  you  were  mortified  to  know,  that  the 
usual  answer  was,  "  Yo'll  find  me  yarn  it, 
sur,"  or  "  I  conna  gue  for  less." 

When  a  bargain  is  concluded  on  at  a 
"  Statute,"  it  is  the  custom  to  ratify  it  im- 
mediately, and  on  the  spot,  by  the  master 
presenting  to  the  servant  what  is  termed 
"  earnest  money,"  which  is  usually  one 
shilling,  but  it  varies  according  to  circum- 
stances ;  for  instance,  if  a  servant  agrees  to 
come  for  less  than  he  at  first  asked,  it  is, 
perhaps,  on  the  condition  that  his  earnest 
is  augmented,  probably  doubled  or  trebled, 
as  may  be  agreed  on. 

The  contract  arises  upon  the  hiring :  if 
the  hiring  be  general,  without  any  particu- 
lar time  limited,  the  law  construes  it  to  be 
hiring  for  one  year ;  but  the  contract  may 
be  made  for  any  longer  or  shorter  period. 
Many  farmers  are  wary  enough  to  hire 
their  servants  for  fifty-one  weeks  only, 
which  prevents  them  having  any  claim 
upon  that  particular  parish  in  case  of  dis- 
tress, &c.  We  frequently  find  disputes 
between  two  parishes  arising  out  of  Statute- 
hirings  brought  to  the  assizes  or  sessions 
for  settlement. 

When  the  hiring  is  over,  the  emblems  in 
he  hats  are  exchanged  for  ribbons  of  al- 


most every  hue.  Some  retire  to  the  neigh- 
bouring grounds  to  have  games  at  bowls, 
skittles,  or  pitching,  &c.  &c.,  whilst  the 
more  unwary  are  fleeced  of  their  money  by 
the  itinerant  Greeks  and  black  legs  with 
E.  O.  tables,  pricking  in  the  garter,  the 
three  thimbles  8c  c.  &c.  These  tricksters 
seldom  fail  to  rea  p  abundant  harvests  at 
the  Statutes.  Towards  evening  each  lad 
seeks  his  lass,  and  they  hurry  off  to  spend  the 
night  at  the  public-houses,  or,  as  is  the 
case  in  some  small  villages,  at  private 
houses,  which,  on  these  occasions,  are 
licensed  for  the  time  being. 

To  attempt  to  delineate  the  scenes  that 
now  present  themselves,  would  on  my  part 
be  presumption  indeed.  It  rather  requires 
the  pencil  of  Hogarth  to  do  justice  to  this 
varied  picture.  Here  go  round  the 

"Song  and  dance,  and  mirth  and  glfte;" 

but  I  cannot  add,  with  the  poet, 

"  In  one  continued  round  of  harmony :" 

for,  among  such  a  mingled  mass,  i't  is  rare 
but  that  in  some  part  discord  breaks  in 
upon  the  rustic  amusements  of  the  peace- 
ably inclined.  The  rooms  of  the  several 
houses  are  literally  crammed,  and  usually 
remain  so  throughout  the  night,  unless  they 
happen  to  be  under  restrictions  from  the 
magistrates,  in  which  case  the  houses  are 
shut  at  a  stated  hour,  or  the  license  risked. 
Clearances,  however,  are  not  easily  effected 
At  a  village  not  far  from  hence,  it  has, 
ere  now,  been  found  necessary  to  disturb 
the  reverend  magistrate  from  his  peaceful 
slumbers,  and  require  his  presence  to  quell 
disturbances  that  almost,  as  a  natural  con- 
sequence, ensue,  from  the  landlords  and 
proprietors  of  the  houses  attempting  to 
turn  out  guests,  who,  under  the  influence  of 
liquor,  pay  little  regard  to  either  landlord  • 
or  magistrate.  The  most  peaceable  way  T>f 
dealing,  is  to  allow  them  to  remain  till  the 
morning  dawn  breaks  in  and  warns  them 
home. 

The  time  for  Statute-hiring  commences 
about  the  beginning  of  September,  and 
usually  closes  before  old  .  Michaelmas-day, 
that  being  the  day  on  which  servants  enter 
on  their  new  services,  or,  at  least,  quit  their 
old  ones.  Yet  there  are  some  few  Statutes 
held  after  this  time,  which  are  significantly 
styled  "  Runaway  Mops  ;"  one  of  this  kind 
is  held  at  Henley-in-Arden,  on  the  29th  of 
October,  being  also  St.  Luke's  fair.  Three 
others  are  held  at  Southam,  in  Warwick- 
shire, on  the  three  successive  Mondays 
after  old  Michaelmas-day.  To  these  Sta- 
tutes all  repair,  who,  from  one  cause  or 
other,  decline  to  go  to  their  new  places, 


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178 


together  with  others  who  had  not  been  for- 
tunate enough  to  obtain  situations.  Mas- 
ters, however,  consider  it  rather  hazardous  to 
hire  at  these  Statutes,  as  they  ate  in  danger 
of  engaging1  with  servants  already  hired, 
who  capriciously  refuse  to  go  to  their  em- 
ployment ;  and  if  any  person  hire  or  retain 
a  servant  so  engaged,  the  first  hirer  has  his 
action  for  damages  against  the  master  and 
servant ;  yet,  if  the  new  master  did  not 
know  his  servant  had  been  hired  before,  no 
action  will  lie  against  him,  except  he 
refuse  to  give  him  up  on  information  and 
demand.  Characters  are  sometimes  requir- 
ed by  the  master  hiring ;  and  these,  to  the 
great  detriment  of  society,  are  given  in 
such  a  loose  and  unreserved  manner,  that 
(to  use  the  language  of  the  author  of  the 
Rambler)  you  may  almost  as  soon  depend 
on  the  circumstance  of  an  acquittal  at  the 
Old  Bailey  by  way  of  recommendation  to 
a  servant's  honesty,  as  upon  one  of  these 
characters. 

If  a  master  discovers  that  a  servant  is 
not  capable  of  performing  the  stipulated 
work,  or  is  of  bad  character,  he  may  send 
the  servant  to  drink  the  "  earnest  money  ;" 
and  custom  has  rendered  this  sufficient  to 
dissolve  the  contract.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  a  servant  has  been  deceived  by  the  mas- 
ter in  any  particular,  a  release  is  obtained 
by  returning  the  "  earnest."  If,  however, 
there  is  no  just  ground  of  complaint,  it  is 
at  the  master's  option  to  accept  it,  and  vice 
versa.  The  Statutes  I  have  visited  for  the 
purpose  of  gaining  these  particulars  are 
Stud  ley,  Shipston-on-Stour,  and  Aston- 
Cantlow,  all  in  Warwickshire.  I  observed 
no  particular  difference  either  in  the  busi- 
ness or  the  diversions  of  the  day,  but  Stud- 
ley  was  by  far  the  largest.  At  Stratford-on- 
Avon,  and  some  other  places,  there  is  bull- 
roasting,  &c.,  which,  of  course,  adds  to  the 
amusement  and  frolic  of  the  visitors. 

I  believe  I  have  now  pretty  well  exhaust- 
ed my  notes,  and  I  should  not  have  been 
thus  particular,  but  that  1  believe  Statute- 
hiring  is  a  custom  peculiar  to  England.  I 
shall  conclude  by  making  an  extract  from 
Isaac  Bickerstaffe's  "  Love  in  a  Village." 
In  scenes  the  10th  and  llth  there  is  a  green, 
with  the  prospect  of  a  village,  and  the 
representation  of  a  Statute,  and  tlie  follow- 
ing conversation,  &c.  takes  place : — 

Hodge.  This  way,  your  worship,  this 
way.  Why  don't  you  stand  aside  there  ? 
Here's  his  worship  a-coming. 

Countrymen.  His  worship  ! 

Justice  Woodcock.  Fy !  fy !  what  a 
crowd's  this  !  Odds,  I'll  put  some  of  then* 


in  the  stocks.  (Striking  a  fellow.)  Stand 
out  of  the  way,  sirrah. 

Hodge.  Now,  your  honour,  now  tne 
sport  will  come.  The  gut-scrapers  are 
here,  and  some  among  them  are  going  to 
sing  and  dance.  Why,  there's  not  the  like 
of  our  Statute,  mun,  in  five  counties ;  others 
are  but  fools  to  it. 

Servant  Man.  Come,  good  people,  make 
a  ring ;  and  stand  out,  fellow-servants,  as 
many  of  you  as  are  willing  and  able  to 
bear  a-bob.  We'll  let  my  masters  and 
mistresses  see  we  can  do  something  at 
least ;  if  they  won't  hire  us  it  sha'n't  be 
our  fault.  Strike  up  the  Servants'  Medley. 
AIR. 

Housemaid. 

I  pray,  gentles,  list  to  me, 
I'm  young  and  strong,  and  clean,  yon  see ; 
I'll  not  turn  tail  to  any  she, 

For  work  that's  in  the  country. 
Of  all  your  house  the  charge  I  take, 
I  wash,  I  scrub,  I  brew,  I  bake ; 
And  more  can  do  than  here  I'll  speak, 
Depending  on  your  bounty. 

Footman. 
Behold  a  blade,  who  knows  his  trade. 

In  chamber,  hall,  and  entry  t 
And  what  though  here  I  now  appear, 
I've  served  the  best  of  gentry. 
A  footman  would  you  have, 
I  can  dress,  and  comb,  and  shave; 
For  I  a  handy  lad  am : 
On  a  message  I  can  go, 
And  slip  a  billet-doux, 
With  your  humble  servai«t,  madam. 

CooJtmaid. 

Who  wants  a  good  cook  my  hand  they  must  cross; 
For  plain  wholesome  dishes  I'm  ne'er  at  a  loss ; 
And  what  are  your  soups,  your  ragouts,  and  your  sauce. 
Compared  to  old  English  roast  beef? 

Carter. 

If  you  want  a  young  man  with  a  true  honest  heart. 
Who  knows  how  to  manage  a  plough  and  a  cart, 
Here's  one  to  your  purpose,  come  take  me  and  try ; 
You'll  say  you  ne'er  met  with  a  better  than  I, 
Geho,  dobin,  &c. 

Chorus. 

My  masters  and  mistresses  hitiier  repair, 
What  servants  you  want  you'll  find  in  our  fair; 
Men  and  maids  fit  for  all  sorts  of  stations  there  be. 
And  as  for  the  wages  we  sha'n't  disagree. 

Presuming  that  these  memoranda  mny 
amuse  a  number  of  persons  who,  chiehy 
living  in  large  towns  and  cities,  have  no 
opportunity  of  being  otherwise  acquainted 
with  "  Statutes,"  or  "  Mops,"  in  country- 
places,  I  am,  &c. 

Birmingham.  W.  PARE 


179 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


:ao 


HAM  AND  STILTON. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

THE    POET'S    EPISTLE    OF   THANKS  TO 
FRIEND  AT  BIRMINGHAM. 

"  Perlege  Maeonio  cantatas  carmine  ranas, 

Et  frontem  nugi,  solvere  disce  meis." 

MAS.-. 


Dear  Friend, — I  feel  constraint  to  say. 
The  present  sent  the  other  day 
Claims  my  best  thanks,  and  while  design'd 
To  please  the  taste,  it  warm'd  my  mind. 
Nor,  wonder  not  it  should  inspire 
Within  my  oreast  poetic  fire ! 

The  Cheese  seem'd  like  some  growing  state, 
Compos'd  of  little  folks  and  great ; 
Though  we  denominate  them  rr,itet, 
They  call  each  other  Stiltonites. 
And  'tis  most  fit,  where'er  we  live, 
The  land  our  epithet  should  give  : 
Romans  derive  their  name  from  Rome, 
And  Turks,  you  know,  from  Turkey  come. 

Gazing  with  "  microscopic  eye '" 

O'er  Stilton  land,  I  did  espy 

Such  wonders,  as  would  make  those  stare 

Who  never  peep'd  or  travell'd  there. 

The  country  where  this  race  reside 

Abounds  with  crags  on  ev'ry  side  : 

Its  geographic  situation     • 

Is  under  constant  variation ; 

Now  hurried  np,  then  down  again- - 

No  Sx'd  abode  can  it  maintain : 

And,  like  the  Lilliputian  dim  j, 

We  read  about  in  olden  time, 

Huge  giants  compass  it  about, 

Who  dig  within,  and  cut  without, 

And  at  a  mouthful — direful  fate ! 

A  city  oft  depopulate  1 

And,  then,  in  Stilton,  yon  most  Vuiovr 

There  is  a  spot,  call'd  Rotten-row  ; 

A  soil  more  marshy  than  the  rest, 

Therefore  by  some  esteem'd  the  best. 

The  natives  here,  whene'er  they  dine. 

Drink  nothing  but  the  choicest  wine ; 

Which  through  each  street  comes  flowing  down, 

Like  water  in  New  Sarum's  town. 

h  such  a  quarter,  yon  may  guess, 

The  leading  vice  is  drunkenness. 

£ome  hither  any  hour  of  day, 

And  yon  shall  see  whole  clusters  lay 

Reeling  and  floundering  about, 

As  though  it  were  a  madman's  rout. 

Those  who  dwell  nearer  the  land's  end, 

Where  rarely  the  red  show'rs  descend. 

Are  in  their  turns  corporeal 

More  sober  and  gymnastiral 

Meandering  in  kindred  dust, 

fhey  gauge,  and  with  the  dry-rot  burst , 

For  we  may  natr.rally  think, 

They  live  not  long  who  cannot  drink. 


Alas !  poor  Stilton  !  where's  the  mrj? 
To  sing  thy  downfall  will  refuse? 
Melpomene,  in  mournful  verse, 
Thy  dire  destruction  will  rehearse : 
Comus  himself  shall  grieve  and  weep, 
As  notes  of  woe  his  gay  lyre  sweep ; 
For  who  among  thy  countless  band 
The  fierce  invaders  can  withstand  ? 
Nor  only  foreign  foes  are  thine — 
Children  thou  hast,  who  undermine 
Thy  massive  walls  that  'girt  thee  round. 
And  ev'ry  corner  seems  unsound. 
A  few  more  weeks,  and  we  shall  see 
Stilton,  the  fam'd — will  cease  to  be  ! 

Before,  however,  I  conclude, 
I  wish  to  add,  that  gratitude 
Incites  me  to  another  theme 
Beside  coagulated  cream. 
'Tis  not  about  the  village  Ham, 
Nor  yet  the  place  call'd  Petersham  - 
Nor  more  renowned  Birmingham  : 
Nor  is  it  fried  or  Friar  Bacon, 
The  Muse  commands  me  verse  to  make  on  • 
Norpfi/mies,  (as  the  poet  feigns,) 
'        A  people  once  devour'd  by  cranes, 
Of  these  I  speak  not — my  intention 
Is  something  nearer  home  to  mention ; 
Therefore,  at  once,  for  pig's  hind  leg 
Accept  my  warmest  thanks,  I  beg. 
The  meat  was  of  the  finest  sort, 
And  worthy  of  a  dish  at  court. 

Lastly,  I  gladly  would  express 

The  grateful  feelings  I  possess 

For  such  a  boon — th'  attempt  is  Tain, 

And  hence  in  wisdom  I  refrain 

From  saying  more  than  what  yon  see — 

Farewell !  sincerely  yours, 

B.C, 

To  E.  T.  Esq. 
Jan.  1827. 


LOVES  OF  THE  NEGROES. 

AT  NEW  PALTZ,  UNITED  STATES. 

Pkillis  Schoonmaker  v.  Cuff  Hogeboon. 

This  was  an  action  for  a  breach  of  the 
marriage  promise,  tried  before  'squire  De 
Witt,  justice  of  the  peace  and  quorum. 
The  parties,  as  their  names  indicate,  were 
black,  or,  as  philanthropists  would  say, 
coloured  folk.  Counsellor  Van  Shaick  ap- 
pealed on  behalf  of  the  lady.  He  recapi- 
tulated the  many  verdicts  which  had  been 
given  of  late  in  favour  of  injured  inno- 
cence, much  to  the  honour  and  gallantry  of 
an  American  jury.  It  was  time  to  put  an 
end  to  these  faithless  professions,  to  these 
cold-hearted  delusions  ;  it  was  time  to  put 
a  curb  upon  the  false  tongues  and  false 
hearts  of  pretended  lovers,  who,  with  honied 


181 


THE  TABLE  BOOK 


182 


accents,  only  woo'd  to  ruin,  and  only  pro- 
fessed to  deceive.  The  \rorthy  counsellor 
trusted  that  no  injurious  impressions  would 
be  made  on  the  minds  of  the  jury  by  the 
colour  of  his  client — 

"  "Tis  not  a  set  of  features, 

This  tincture  of  the  skin,  that  we  admire." 

She  was  black,  it  was  true ;  so  was  the  ho- 
noured wife  of  Moses,  the  most  illustrious 
and  inspired  of  prophets.  Othello,  the 
celebrated  Moor  of  Venice,  and  the  victo- 
rious general  of  her  armies,  was  black,  yet 
the  lovely  Desdemona  saw  "  Othello's  visage 
in  his  mind."  In  modern  times,  we  might 
quote  his  sable  majesty  of  Hayti,  or,  since 
that  country  had  become  a  republic,  the 
gallant  Boyer. — He  could  also  refer  to  Rhio 
Rhio,  king  of  the  Sandwich  Islands,  his 
copper-coloured  queen,  and  madame  Poki, 
so  hospitably  received,  and  fed  to  death  by 
their  colleague  the  king  of  England — nay, 
the  counsellor  was  well  advised  that  the 
brave  general  Sucre,  the  hero  of  Ayacucho, 
was  a  dark  mulatto.  What,  then,  is  colour 
in  estimating  the  griefs  of  a  forsaken  and 
ill-treated  female?  She  was  poor,  it  was 
(rue,  and  in  a  humble  sphere  of  life;  but 
love  levels  all  distinctions  ;  the  blind  god 
was  no  judge,  and  no  respecter  of  colours  ; 
his  darts  penetrated  deep,  not  skin  deep ; 
his  client,  though  black,  was  flesh  and 
blood,  and  possessed  affections,  passions, 
resentments,  and  sensibilities ;  and  in  this 
case  she  confidently  threw  herself  upon  the 
generosity  of  a  jury  of  freemen — of  men  of 
the  north,  as  the  friends  of  the  northern 
president  would  say,  of  men  who  did  not 
live  in  Missouri,  and  on  sugar  plantations  ; 
and  from  such  his  client  expected  just  and 
liberal  damages. 

Phillis  then  advanced  to  the  bar,  to  give 
her  testimony.  She  was,  as  her  counsel 
represented,  truly  made  up  of  flesh  and 
blood,  being  what  is  called  a  strapping 
wench,  as  black  as  the  ace  of  spades.  She 
was  dressed  in  the  low  Dutch  fashion, 
which  has  not  varied  for  a  century,  linsey- 
woolsey  petticoats,  very  short,  blue  worsted 
stockings,  leather  shoes,  with  a  massive 
pair  of  silver  buckles,  bead  ear-rings,  her 
woolly  hair  combed,  and  face  sleek  and 
greasy.  There  was  no  "  dejected  'haviour 
of  visage" — no  broken  heart  visible  in  her 
face — she  looked  fat  and  comfortable,  as  if 
she  had  sustained  no  damage  by  the  petfidy 
of  her  swain.  Before  she  was  sworn,  the 
court  called  the  defendant,  who  came  from 
among  the  crowd,  and  stood  respectfully 
before  the  bench.  Cuff  was  a  good-looking 
young  fellow,  with  a  tolerably  smartish 


dress,  and  appeared  as  if  he  had  been  in 
the  metropolis  taking  lessons  of  perfidious 
lovers — he  cast  one  or  two  cutting  looks  at 
Phillis,  accompanied  by  a  significant  turn 
up  of  the  nose,  and  now  and  then  a  con- 
temptuous ejaculation  of  Eh  ! — Umph ! — 
Ough  I—which  did  not  disconcert  the  /air- 
one  in  the  least,  she  returning  the  compli- 
ment by  placing  her  arms  a-kimbo,  and 
surveying  her  lover  from  head  to  foot.  The 
court  inquired  of  Cuff  whether  he  had 
counsel?  "  No,  massa,  (he  replied)  I  tell 
my  own  'tory — you  see  massa  'Squire,  I 
know  de  gentlemen  of  de  jury  berry  veil — 
dere  is  massa  Teerpenning,  of  Little  'So- 
phus,  know  him  berry  veil — I  plough  for 
him ; — den  dere  is  massa  Traphagan,  of  our 
town — how  he  do  massa  ? — ah,  dere  massa 
Topper,  vat  prints  de  paper  at  Big  'Sophus 
— know  him  too; — dere  is  massa  Peet 
Steenberg — know  him  too — he  owe  me  lit- 
tle money  : — I  know  'em  all  massa  'Squire; 
— I  did  go  to  get  massa  Lucas  to  plead  for 
me,  but  he  gone  to  the  Court  of  Error,  at 
Albany ; — Massa  Sam  Freer  and  massa 
Cockburn  said  they  come  to  gib  me  good 
character,  but  I  no  see  'em  here." 

Cuff  was  ordered  to  stand  aside,  and 
Phillis  was  sworn. 

Plaintiff  said  she  did  not  know  how  old 
she  was ;  believed  she  was  sixteen ;  she 
looked  nearer  twenty-six;  she  lived  with 
Hons  Schoonmaker ;  was  brought  up  in  the 
family.  She  told  her  case  as  pathetically 
as  possible : — 

"  Massa  'Squire/'  said  she,  "  I  was  gone 
up  to  massa  Schoonmaker's  lot,  on  Shaun- 
gum  mountain,  to  pile  brush  ;  den  Cuff,  he 
vat  stands  dare,  cum  by  vid  de  teem,  he  top 
his  horses  and  say,  '  How  de  do,  Phillis?' 
or,  as  she  gave  it,  probably  in  Dutch, '  How 
gaud  it  mit  you  ?'  '  Hail  goot,'  said  I ;  den 
massa  he  look  at  me  berry  hard,  and  say, 
Phillis,  pose  you  meet  me  in  the  nite,  ven  de 
moon  is  up,  near  de  barn,  I  got  sumting  to 
say — den  I  say,  berry  bell,  Cuff,  I  vill — he 
vent  up  de  mountain,  and  I  vent  home ; 
ven  I  eat  my  supper  and  milk  de  cows,  I 
say  to  myself,  Phillis,  pose  you  go  down  to 
de  barn,  and  hear  vat  Cuff  has  to  say. 
Well,  massa  'Squire,  I  go,  dare  was  Cuff 
sure  enough,  he  told  heaps  of  tings  all 
about  love ;  call'd  me  Wenus  and  Jewpeter, 
and  other  tings  vat  he  got  out  of  de  play- 
house ven  he  vent  down  in  the  slope  to 
New  York,  and  he  ax'd  me  if  I'd  marry 
him  before  de  Dominie,  Osterhaut,  he  vat 
preached  in  Milton,  down  'pon  Marlbro'. 
I  say,  Cuft",  you  make  fun  on  me ;  he  say 
no,  '  By  mine  zeal,  I  vil  marry  you,  Phillis  ;-* 
den  he  gib  me  dis  here  as  earnest." — PhilLj 


183 


THE  TABLE  BOUK. 


184 


nere  drew  from  her  huge  pocke.  an  im- 
mense pair  of  scissars,  a  jack  knife,  and  a 
wooden  pipe  curiously  carved,  which  she 
offered  as  a  testimony  of  the  promise,  and 
which  was  sworn  to  as  the  property  of  Cuff, 
who  subsequently  had  refused  to  fulfil  the 
contract. 

Cuff  admitted  that  he  had  made  her  a 
kind  of  promise,  but  it  was  conditional. 
"  I  told  her,  massa  'Squire,  that  she  was  a 
slave  and  a  nigger,  and  she  must  wait  till 
the  year  27,  then  all  would  be  free,  cording 
to  the  new  constitution;  den  she  said,  berry 
veil,  I  bill  wait." 

Phillis  utterly  denied  the  period  of  pro- 
bation ;  it  was,  she  said,  to  take  place  "  ben 
he  got  de  new  corduroy  breeches  from 
Cripplely  Coon,  de  tailor;  he  owe  three  and 
sixpence,  and  mnssa  Coon  won't  let  him 
hab  'em  vidout  de  money :  den  Cuff  he  run 
away  to  Varsing ;  I  send  Coon  Crook,  de 
constable,  and  he  find  urn  at  Shaudakin, 
and  he  bring  him  before  you,  massa." 

The  testimony  here  closed. 

The  court  charged  the  jury,  that  although 
the  testimony  was  not  conclusive,  nor  the 
injury  very  apparent,  yet  the  court  was  not 
warranted  in  taking  the  case  out  of  the 
nands  of  the  jury.  A  promise  had  evidently 
been  made,  and  had  been  broken ;  some 
differences  existed  as  to  the  period  when 
the  matrimonial  contract  was  to  have  been 
fulfilled,  and  it  was  equally  true  and  honour- 
able, as  the  court  observed,  that  in  1827 
slavery  was  to  cease  in  the  state,  and  that 
fact  might  have  warranted  the  defendant  in 
the  postponement ;  but  of  this  there  was 
no  positive  proof,  and  as  the  parties  could 
neither  read  nor  write,  the  presents  might  be 
construed  into  a  marriage  promise.  The 
court  could  see  no  reason  why  these  hum- 
ble Africans  should  not,  in  imitation  of 
their  betters,  in  such  cases,  appeal  to  a  jury 
for  damages ;  but  it  was  advisable  not  to 
make  those  damages  more  enormous  than 
circumstances  warranted,  yet  sufficient  to 
act  as  a  lesson  to  those  coloured  gentry,  in 
their  attempts  to  imitate  fashionable  in- 
fidelity. 

The  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  "  Ten 
dollars,  and  costs,  for  the  plaintiff." 

The  defendant  not  being  able  to  pay, 
was  committed  to  Kingston  jail,  a  martyr 
to  his  own  folly,  and  an  example  to  all 
others  in  like  cases  offending. 


THE  RETROSPECT. 

I  have  not  heard  thy  name  for  years; 

Thy  memory  ere  thyself  is  dead ; 
And  even  I  forget  the  tears 

That  once  for  thy  lov'd  sake  were  shed. 

There  was  a  time  when  thou  didst  seem 
The  light  and  breath  of  life  to  me— 

When,  e'en  in  thought,  I  could  not  dream 
That  less  than  mine  thou  e'er  could  be :  — 

Yet  now  it  is  a  chance  that  brought 

Thy  image  to  my  heart  again  ; 
A  single  flower  recall'd  the  thought — 

Why  is  it  still  so  full  of  pain  ? 

The  jasmine,  round  the  casement  twin'd, 
Caught  mine  eye  in  the  pale  moonlight  • 

It  broke  my  dream,  and  brought  to  mind 
Another  dream — another  night. 

As  then,  I  by  the  casement  leant , 
As  then,  the  silver  moonlight  shone- 

Bot  not,  as  then,  another  bent 
Beside  me — I  am  now  alone. 

The  sea  is  now  between  us  twain 
As  wide  a  gulf  between  each  heart ; 

Never  can  either  have  again 
An  influence  on  the  other's  part. 

Our  paths  are  different ;  perchance  mine 
May  seem  the  sunniest  of  the  two  : 

The  lute,  which  once  was  only  thine, 
Has  other  aim,  and  higher  view. 

My  song  has  now  a  wider  scope 

Than  when  its  first  tones  breath'd  thj  name; 
My  heart  has  done  with  Love — and  hope 

Turn'd  to  another  idol— Fame. 

'Tis  but  one  destiny ;  one  dream 

Succeeds  another.— like  a  wave 
Following  its  bubbles — till  their  gleam 

Is  lost,  and  ended  in  the  grave. 

Why  am  I  sorrowful  ?    'Tis  not 
One  thought  of  thee  has  brought  the  tear 

In  sooth,  thou  art  so  much  forgot, 
I  do  not  even  wish  thee  here 

Both  are  so  chang'd,  that  did  we  meet 
We  might  but  marvel  we  had  lov'd : 

What  made  our  earliest  dream  so  sweet  :— 
Illusions — long,  long  since  remov'd. 

I  sorrow — but  it  is  to  know 

How  still  some  fair  deceit  unweaves — 
To  think  how  all  of  joy  below 

Is  only  joy  while  it  deceives. 

I  sorrow — but  it  is  to  feel 

Changes  which  my  own  mind  hath  told:— 
What,  though  time  polishes  the  steel, 

Alas  !  it  is  less  bright  than  cold. 


II1E  TABLE  BOOK 


180 


..arf  more  smiles,  koo  lewer  tears  ; 
Bof  tears  are  now  restrain' d  for  shame: 
Task-work  the  smiles  my  lip  now  wears, 
That  once  like  rain  and  sunshine  came. 

Where  is  the  sweet  credulity, 

Happy  in  that  fond  trust  it  bore, 
Which  never  dream'd  the  time  would  be 

When  it  could  hope  and  trust  no  more  ? 

Affection,  springing  warmly  forth — 
Light  word,  light  laugh,  and  lighter  care 

Life's  afternoon  is  little  worth — 
The  dew  and  warmth  of  morning  air. 

I  would  not  live  again  love's  hour ; 

But  fain  I  would  again  recall 
The  feelings  which  upheld  its  power — 

The  truth,  the  hope,  that  made  it  thrall. 

I  would  renounce  the  worldliness. 
Now  too  much  with  my  heart  and  one ; 

In  one  trust  more,  in  one  doubt  less, 
How  much  of  happiness  would  be  ! — 

Vainer  than  vain  !    Why  should  I  ask 
Life's  sweet  but  most  deceiving  part  ? 

Alas  1  the  bloom  upon  the  cheek 
Long,  long  outlives  that  of  the  heart. 

L.  E.  L. — Monthly  Magazine. 


TIMBER  IN  BOGS. 

It  is  stated  in  the  second  report  of  the 
commissioners  on  the  bogs  of  Ireland,  that 
three  distinct  growths  of  timber,  covered 
by  three  distinct  masses  of  bog,  are  dis- 
covered on  examination.  But  whether  these 
morasses  were  at  first  formed  by  the  de- 
struction of  whole  forests,  or  merely  by  the 
stagnation  of  water  in  places  where  its 
current  was  choked  by  the  fall  of  a  few 
trees,  and  by  accumulations  of  branches 
and  leaves,  carried  down  from  the  sur- 
rounding hills,  is  a  question. 

Professor  Davy  is  of  opinion,  that  in 
many  places  where  forests  had  grown  un- 
disturbed, the  trees  on  the  outside  of  the 
woods  grew  stronger  than  the  rest,  from 
their  exposure  to  the  air  and  sun  ;  and  that, 
when  mankind  attempted  to  establish  them- 
selves near  these  forests,  they  cut  down  the 
large  trees  on  their  borders,  which  opened 
the  internal  part,  where  the  trees  were  weak 
and  slender,  to  the  influence  of  the  wind, 
which,  as  is  commonly  to  be  seen  in  such 
circumstances,  had  immediate  power  to 
sweep  down  the  whole  of  the  internal  parts 
of  the  forest.  The  large  timber  obstructed 
the  passage  of  vegetable  recrement,  and  of 
earth  falling  towards  the  rivers  ;  the  weak 
timber,  in  the  internal  part  of  the  forest 
after  it  had  fallen,  soon  decayed,  and  be- 
came the  food  of  future  vegetation. 


Mr.  Kirwan  observes,  that  whatever  trees 
are  found  in  bogs,  though  the  wood  may  be 
perfectly  sound,  the  bark  of  the  timber  has 
uniformly  disappeared,  and  the  decomposi 
tion  of  this  bark  forms  a  considerable  part 
of  the  nutritive  substance  of  morasses. 
Notwithstanding  this  circumstance,  tanning 
is  not  to  be  obtained  in  analysing  bogs ; 
their  antiseptic  quality  is  however  indispu- 
table, for  animal  and  vegetable  substances 
are  frequently  found  at  a  great  depth  in 
bogs,  without  their  seeming  to  have  suffered 
any  decay ;  these  substances  cannot  have 
been  deposited  in  them  at  a  very  remote 
period,  because  their  form  and  texture  is 
such  as  were  common  a  few  centuries  ago. 
In  1786  there  were  found,  seventeen  feet 
below  the  surface  of  a  bog  in  Mr.  Kirwan's 
district,  a  woollen  coat  of  coarse,  but  even, 
network,  exactly  in  the  form  of  what  is 
now  called  a  spencer ;  a  razor,  with  a 
wooden  handle,  some  iron  heads  of  arrows, 
and  large  wooden  bowls,  some  only  half 
made,  were  also  found,  with  the  remains  of 
turning  tools :  these  were  obviously  the 
wreck  of  a  workshop,  which  was  probably 
situated  on  the  borders  of  a  forest.  The 
coat  was  presented  by  him  to  the  Antiqua- 
rian Society.  These  circumstances  coun- 
tenance the  supposition,  that  the  encroach- 
ments of  men  upon  forests  destroyed  the 
first  barriers  against  the  force  of  the  wind, 
and  that  afterwards,  according  to  sir  H. 
Davy's  suggestion,  the  trees  of  weaker 
growth,  which  had  not  room  to  expand,  or 
air  and  sunshine  to  promote  their  increase, 
soon  gave  way  to  the  elements. 

MODES  OF  SALUTATION. 

Greenlanders  have  none,  and  laugh  at 
the  idea  of  one  person  being  inferior  to 
another. 

Islanders  near  the  Philippines  take  a 
person's  hand  or  foot,  and  rub  it  over  their 
face. 

Laplanders  apply  their  noses  strongly 
against  the  person  they  salute. 

In  New  Guinea,  they  place  leaves  upon 
the  head  of  those  they  salute. 

In  the  Straits  of  the  Sound  they  raise 
the  left  foot  of  the  person  saluted,  pass  it 
gently  over  the  right  leg,  and  thence  over 
the  face. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  Philippines  bend 
very  low,  placing  their  hands  on  their 
cheeks,  and  raise  one  foot  in  the  air,  with 
the  knee  bent. 

An  Ethiopian  takes  the  robe  of  another 
and  ties  it  about  him,  so  as  to  leave  his 
friend  almost  naked. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


168 


The  Japanese  take  off  a  slipper,  and 
the  people  of  Arracan  their  sandals,  in  the 
street,  and  their  stockings  in  the  house, 
when  they  salute. 

Two  Negro  kings  on  the  coast  of  Africa, 
salute  by  snapping  the  middle  finger  three 
times. 

The  inhabitants  of  Carmene,  when  they 
would  show  a  particular  attachment,  breathe 
a  vein,  and  present  the  blood  to  their  friend 
as  a  beverage. 

If  the  Chinese  meet,  after  a  long  separa- 
tion, they  fall  on  their  knees,  bend  their 
face  to  the  earth  two  or  three  times,  and 
use  many  other  affected  modes.  They  have 
also  a  kind  of  ritual,  or  "  academy  of  com- 
pliments," by  which  they  regulate  the  num- 
ber of  bows,  genuflections,  and  words  to 
be  spoken  upon  any  occasion.  Ambassa- 
dors practise  these  ceremonies  forty  days 
before  they  appear  at  court. 

In  Otaheite,  they  rub  their  noses  toge- 
ther. 

The  Dutch,  who  are  considered  as  great 
eaters,  have  a  morning  salutation,  common 
amongst  all  ranks,  "  Smaakelyk  eeten  ?" — 
"  May  you  eat  a  hearty  dinner."  Another 
is,  "  Hoe  vaart  awe." — "  How  do  you 
sail  ?"  adopted,  no  doubt,  in  the  early 
periods  of  the  republic,  when  they  were  all 
navigators  and  fishermen. 

The  usual  salutation  at  Cairo  is,  "  How 
do  you  sweat?"  a  dry  hot  skin  being  a 
sure  indication  of  a  destructive  ephemeral 
fever.  Some  author  has  observed,  in  con- 
trasting the  haughty  Spaniard  with  the 
frivolous  Frenchman,  that  the  proud,  steady 
gait  and  inflexible  solemnity  of  the  former, 
were  expressed  in  his  mode  of  salutation, 
"Come  esta?" — "How  do  you  stand?" 
whilst  the  "  Comment  vous  portez-vous  ?" 
"How  do  you  carry  yourself?"  was  equally 
expressive  of  the  gay  motion  and  incessant 
action  of  the  latter. 

The  common  salutation  in  the  southern 
provinces  of  China,  amongst  the  lower 
orders,  is,  "  Ya  fan  ?" — "  Have  you  eaten 
your  rice  ?" 

In  Africa,  a  young  woman,  an  intended 
bride,  brought  a  little  water  in  a  calabash, 
and  kneeling  down  before  her  lover,  de- 
sired him  to  wash  his  hands  ;  when  he  had 
done  this,  the  girl,  with  a  tear  of  joy  spark- 
ling in  her  eyes,  drank  the  water ;  this  was 
considered  as  the  greatest  proof  she  could 
give  of  her  fidelity  and  attachment. 


POETRY. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

The  poesy  of  the  earth,  sea,  air,  and  sky. 
Though  death  is  powerful  in  course  of  tima 

With  wars  and  battlements,  will  never  die. 
But  triumph  in  the  silence  of  sublime 
Survival.     Frost,  like  tyranny,  might  climb 

The  nurseling  germs  of  favourite  haunts  ;  the  roots 
Will  grow  hereafter.    Terror  on  the  deep 
Is  by  the  calm  subdu'd,  that  Beauty  e'en  might  crf 

On  moonlight  waves  to  coral  rest.    The  fruits 
Blush  in  the  winds,  and  from  the  branches  leap 

To  mossy  beds  existing  in  the  ground. 

Stars  swim  unseen,  through  solar  hemispheres, 

Yet  in  the  floods  of  night,  how  brightly  round 
The  zone  of  poesy,  they  reflect  the  rolling  years. 

P. 


A  BAD  SIGN. 

During  a  late  calling  out  of  the  North 
Somerset  yeomanry,  at  Bath,  the  service  of 
one  of  them,  a  "  Batcome  boy,"  was  en- 
livened by  a  visit  from  his  sweetheart ; 
after  escorting  her  over  the  city,  and  being 
fatigued  with  showing  her  what  she  had 
"  ne'er  zeed  in  all  her  life,"  he  knocked 
loudly  at  the  door  of  a  house  in  the  Cres- 
cent, against  which  a  hatchment  was 
placed,  and  on  the  appearance  of  the  pow- 
dered butler,  boldly  ordered  "  two  glasses 
of  scalded  wine,  as  hot  as  thee  canst  make 
it."  The  man,  staring,  informed  him  he 
could  have  no  scalded  wine  there — 'twas  no 
public-house.  "  Then  dose  thee  head," 
replied  Somerset,  "  what'st  hang  out  thik 
there  zign  var." 


INSCRIPTION 

FOR  A  TOMB  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CAPTAIN 
HEWITSON,  OF  THE  SHIT,  TOWN  OF  UL- 
VERSTON. 

By  James  Montgomery,  Esq. 

Weep  for  a  seaman,  honest  and  sincere, 
Not  cast  away,  but  brought  to  anchor  here  ; 
Storms  had  o'erwhelm'd  him.  but  the  conscious  W*T 
Repented,  and  resign'd  him  to  the  grave : 
In  harbour,  safe  from  shipwreck,  now  he  lies, 
Till  Time's  last  signal  blazes  through  the  skits ; 
Refitted  in  a  moment,  then  shall  he 
Sail  from  this  port  on  an  eternal  >ea. 


189 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


190 


He  only  who  is  "  noseless  himself"  will 
deem  this  a  trifling  article.  My  prime 
minister  of  pleasure  is  my  snuff-box.  The 
office  grew  out  of  my  "  liking  a  pinch,  now 
and  then,"  and  carrying  a  bit  of  snuff, 
screwed  up  in  paper,  wherewith,  seme  two 
or  three  times  a  day,  I  delighted  to  treat 
myself  to  a  sensation,  and  a  sneeze.  Had 
I  kept  a  journal  of  my  snuff-taking  business 
from  that  time,  it  would  have  been  as  in- 
structive as  "  the  life  of  that  learned  anti- 
quary, Elias  Ashmole,  Esq.,  drawn  up  by 
himself  by  way  of  diary  ;"  in  submitting 
which  to  the  world,  its  pains-taking  editor 
says,  that  such  works  "  let  us  into  the  secret 
history  of  the  affairs  of  their  several  times, 
discover  the  springs  of  motion,  and  display 
many  valuable,  though  minute  circum- 
stances, overlooked  or  unknown  to  our 
general  historians ;  and,  to  conclude  all, 
satiate  our  largest  curiosity."  A  compa- 
rative view  of  the  important  annals  of  Mr. 
Ashmole,  and  some  reminiscent  incidents 

VOL.  I.— 7. 


of  my  snuff-taking,  I  reserve  for  my  auto- 
biography. 

To  manifest  the  necessity  of  my  present 
brief  undertaking,  I  beg  to  state,  that  I 
still  remain  under  the  disappointment  of 
drawings,  complained  of  in  the  former 
sheet.  I  resorted  on  this,  as  on  all  difficult 
occasions,  to  a  pinch  of  snuff;  and,  having 
previously  resolved  on  taking  "  the  first 
thing  that  came  uppermost,"  for  an  engrav- 
ing and  a  topic,  my  hand  first  fell  on  the 
top  of  my  snuff-box.  If  the  reader  be 
angry  because  I  have  told  the  truth,  it  is 
no  more  than  I  expect ;  for,  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten,  a  preference  is  given  to  a  pre- 
tence, though  privily  known  to  be  a  false- 
hood by  those  to  whom  it  is  offered. 

As  soon  as  I  wear  out  one  snuff-box  I 
get  another — a  silver  one,  and  I,  parted 
company  long  ago.  My  customary  boxes 
have  been  papier-mack^,  plain  black  :  fci 
if  I  had  any  figure  on  the  lid  it  was  sus- 
pected to  be  some  hidden  device ;  an 


191 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


answer  of  direct  negation  was  a  ground  of 
doubt,  offensively  expressed  by  an  in- 
sinuating smile,  or  the  more  open  rudeness 
of  varied  questions.  This  I  could  only 
resist  by  patience;  but  the  parlement  excise 
on  that  virtue  was  more  than  I  could  afford, 
and  therefore  my  choice  of  a  black  box. 
The  last  of  that  colour  I  had  worn  out,  at 
a  season  when  I  was  unlikely  to  have  more 
than  three  or  four  visitors  worth  a  pinch  of 
snuff,  and  I  then  bought  this  box,  because 
it  was  two-thirds  cheaper  than  the  former, 
and  because  I  approved  the  pictured  orna- 
ment. While  the  tobacconist  was  securing 
my  shilling,  he  informed  me  to  at  tne  figure 
had  utterly  excluded  it  from  the  choice  of 
every  one  who  had  noticed  it.  My  selection 
was  agreeable  to  him  in  a  monied  view, 
yet,  both  he,  and  his  man,  eyed  the  box 
so  unkindly,  that  I  fancied  they  extended 
their  dislike  to  me ;  and  I  believe  they  did. 
Of  the  few  who  have  seen  it  since,  it  has 
been  favourably  received  by  only  one — my 
little  Alice — who,  at  a  year  old,  prefers 
it  before  all  others  for  a  plaything,  and 
even  accepts  it  as  a  substitute  for  myself, 
when  I  wish  to  slip  away  from  her  caresses. 
The  elder  young  ones  call  it  the  "  ugly 
old  man,"  but  she  admires  it,  as  the  in- 
nocent infant,  in  the  story-book,  did  the 
harmless  snake,  with  whom  he  daily  shared 
his  bread-and-milk  breakfast.  I  regard  it 
as  the  likeness  of  an  infirm  human  being, 
who,  especially  requiring  comfort  and  pro- 
tection, is  doomed  to  neglect  and  insult 
from  childhood  to  the  grave  ;  and  all  this 
from  no  self-default,but  the  accident  of  birth 
—as  if  the  unpurposed  cruelty  of  nature 
were  a  warrant  for  man's  pei  version  and 
wickedness.  Of  the  individual  I  know 
nothing,  save  what  the  representation  seems 
to  tell — that  he  lives  in  the  world,  and  is 
not  of  it.  His  basket,  with  a  few  pamphlets 
for  sale,  returns  good,  in  the  shape  of 
knowledge,  to  evil  doers,  who,  as  regards 
himself,  are  not  to  be  instructed.  His  up- 
ward look  is  a  sign — common  to  these 
afflicted  ones — of  inward  hope  of  eternal 
mercy,  in  requital  for  temporal  injustice  : 
besides  that,  and  his  walking-staff,  he 
appears  to  have  no  other  support  on  earth. 
The  intelligence  of  his  patient  features 
would  raise  desire,  were  he  alive  and  before 
me,  to  learn  by  what  process  he  gained  the 
understanding  they  express  :  his  face  is  not 
more  painful,  and  I  think  scarcely  less  wise 
than  Locke's,  if  we  may  trust  the  portrait 
of  that  philosopher.  In  the  summer,  after 
a  leisure  view  of  the  Dulwich  gallery  for 
the  first  time,  I  found  myself  in  the  quiet 
parlour  of  a  little-frequented  road-side 


house,  enjoying  the  recollections  of  a  few 
glorious  pictures  in  that  munificent  exhi- 
bition; while  pondering  with  my  box  ii 
my  hand,  the  print  on  its  lid  diverted  me 
into  a  long  reverie  on  what  he,  whom 
represented,  might  have  been  under  othet 
circumstances,  and  I  felt  not  alone  on  the 
earth  while  there  was  another  as  lonely. 
Since  then,  this  "  garner  for  my  grain''  has 
been  worn  out  by  constant  use ;  with 
every  care,  it  cannot  possibly  keep  its  ser- 
vice a  month  longer.  I  shall  regret  the 
loss :  for  its  little  Deformity  has  been  my 
frequent  and  pleasant  companion  in  many 
a  solitary  hour ; — the  box  itself  is  the 
only  one  I  ever  had,  wherein  simulated  or 
cooling  friendship  has  not  dipped. 


<§arricfe 


No.  IV. 

[From  "  All  Fools  ''  a  Comedy  by  George 
Chapman:  1605.] 

Love's  Panegyric. 

--  'tis  Nature's  second  Sun, 
Causing  a  spring  of  Virtues  where  he  shines  ; 
And  as  without  the  Sun,  the  world's  Great  Eye, 
All  colours,  beauties,  both  of  art  and  nature, 
Are  given  in  vain  to  man  ;  so  without  Love 
All  beauties  bred  in  women  are  in  vain, 
All  virtues  born  in  men  lie  buried  ; 
For  Love  informs  them  as  the  Sun  doth  colours  • 
And  as  the  Sun,  reflecting  his  warm  beams 
Against  the  earth,  begets  all  fruits  and  flower* 
So  Love,  fair  shining  in  the  inward  man, 
Brings  forth  in  him  the  honourable  fruits 
Of  valour,  wit,  virtue,  and  haughty  thoughts. 
Brave  resolution,  and  divine  discourse. 

Love  with  Jealousy. 

^—^—  snch  Love  is  like  a  smoky  fire 
In  a  cold  morning.    Though  the  fire  be  chearfnl, 
Yet  is  the  smoke  so  foul  and  cumbersome, 
"Twere  better  lose  the  fire  than  find  the  smoke. 

Bailiffs  routed. 

I  walking  in  the  place  where  men's  Law  Suits 

Are  heard  and  pleaded,  not  so  much  as  dreaming 

Of  any  such  encounter  ;  steps  me  forth 

Their  valiant  Foreman  with  the  word  "  I  'rest  you." 

I  made  no  more  ado  but  laid  these  paws 

Close  on  his  shoulders,  tumbling  him  to  earth  ; 

And  there  sat  he  on  his  posteriors 

Like  a  baboon  :  and  turning  me  about, 

I  strait  espied  the  whole  troop  issuing  on  me. 

I  step  me  back,  and  drawing  my  old  friend  here. 

Made  to  the  midst  of  'em,  and  all  unable 

To  endure  the  shock,  all  rudely  fell  in  rout. 


193 


THK  TABLE  BOOK. 


194 


Ami  down  the  stairs  they  ran  in  such  a  fury, 

As  meeting  with  a  troop  of  Lawyers  there, 

Mann'd  by  their  Clients  (some  with  ten,  some  with 

twenty, 

Some  five,  some  three  ;  he  that  had  least  had  one), 
Upon  the  stairs,  they  bore  them  down  afore  them. 
But  such  a  rattling  then  there  was  amongst  them, 
Of  ravish'd  Declarations,  Replications, 
Rejoinders,  and  Petitions,  all  their  books 
And  writings  torn,  aud  trod  on,  and  seme  lost, 
That  the  poor  Lawyers  coming  to  the  Bar 
Could  say  nought  to  the  matter,  but  instead 
Were  fain  to  rail,  and  talk  beside  their  books, 
Without  all  order. 


[From  the  "  Late  Lancashire  Witches,"  a 
Comedy,  by  Thomas  Heywood.] 

A  Household  Bewitched. 

My  Uncle  has  of  late  become  the  sole 

Discourse  of  all  the  country  ;  for  of  a  man  respected 

As  master  of  a  goveru'd  family, 

The  House  (as  if  the  ridge  were  fix'd  below, 

And  gronndsils  lifted  up  to  make  the  roof) 

All  now's  turn'd  topsy-turvy, 

In  such  a  retrograde  and  preposterous  way 

As  seldom  hath  been  heard  of,  I  think  never. 

The  Good  Man 

In  all  obedience  kneels  unto  his  Son  ; 

He  with  an  austere  brow  commands  his  Father. 

The  Wife  presumes  not  in  the  Daughter's  sight 

Without  a  prepared  curtsy ;  the  Girl  she 

Expects  it  as  a  duty ;  chides  her  Mother, 

Who  quakes  and  trembles  at  each  word  she  speaks. 

And  what's  as  strange,  the  Maid — she  domineers 

O'er  her  young  Mistress,  who  is  awed  by  her. 

The  Son,  to  whom  the  Father  creeps  and  bends, 

Stands  in  as  much  fear  of  the  groom  his  Man  I 

All  in  such  rare  disorder,  that  in  some 

As  it  breeds  pity,  and  in  others  wonder, 

So  in  the  most  part  laughter.   It  is  thought, 

This  conies  by  WITCHCRAFT. 


[From  "  Wit  in  a  Constable,"  a  Comedy, 
by  Henry  Glapthorn.] 

Books. 

Collegian.  Did  you,  ere  we  departed  from  the  College, 
O'erlook  my  Library  ? 

Servant.   Yes,  Sir  ;  and  I  find, 
Altho'  you.  tell  me  Learning  is  immortal, 
The  paper  and  the  parchment  'tis  contain'd  in 
Savours  of  much  mortality. 
The  uioths  have  eaten  more 
Authentic  Learning,  than  would  nthly  furaUh 
A  hu»dred  country  pedants  ;  yet  the  worms 
\re  not  one  letter  wiser. 

C.  L. 


THE  TURK  IN  CHEAPSIDE 

For  the  Table  Book. 
To  MR.  CHARLES  LAMB. 

I  have  a  favour  to  ask  of  you.  My  desire 
is  this  :  J  would  fain  see  a  stream  from  thy 
Hippocrene  flowing  through  the  pages  or 
the  Table  Book.  A  short  article  on  the  old 
Turk,  who  used  to  vend  rhubarb  in  the 
City,  I  greatly  desiderate.  Methinks  you 
would  handle  the  subject  delightfully.  They 
tell  us  he  is  gone 

We  have  not  seen  him  for  some  time 
past — Is  he  really  dead  ?  Must  we  hereafter 
speak  of  him  only  in  the  past  tense  ?  You 
are  said  to  have  divers  strange  items  in  your 
brain  about  him — Vent  them  I  beseech 
you. 

Poor  Mummy  ! — How  many  hours  hath 
he  dreamt  away  on  the  sunny  side  of  Cheap, 
with  an  opium  cud  in  his  cheek,  mutely 
proffering  his  drug  to  the  way-farers  !  That 
deep-toned  bell  above  him,  doubtless,  hath 
often  brought  to  his  recollection  the  loud 
Allah-il-Allahs  to  which  he  listened  hereto- 
fore in  his  fatherland — the  city  of  minaret 
and  mosque,  old  Constantinople.  Will  he 
never  again  be  greeted  by  the  nodding 
steeple  of  Bow  ? — Perhaps  that  ancient  bel- 
dame, with  her  threatening  head  and  loud 
tongue,  at  length  effrayed  the  sallow  being 
out  of  existence. 

Hath  his  soul,  in  truth,  echapped  from 
that  swarthy  cutaneous  case  of  which  it  was 
so  long  a  tenant  ?  Hath  he  glode  over  that 
gossamer  bridge  which  leads  to  the  para- 
dise of  the  prophet  of  Mecca  ?  Doth  he 
pursue  his  old  calling  among  the  faithful  ? 
Are  the  blue-eyed  beauties  (those  living 
diamonds)  who  hang  about  the  neck  of  Ma- 
homet ever  qualmish  ?  Did  the  immortal 
Houris  lack  rhubarb  ? 

Prithee  teach  us  to  know  more  than  we 
do  of  this  Eastern  mystery  !  Have  some 
of  the  ministers  of  the  old  Magi  eloped 
with  him  ?  Was  he  in  truth  a  Turk  ?  We 
have  heard  suspicions  cast  upon  the  au- 
thenticity of  his  complexion — was  its  taw- 
niness  a  forgery  ?  Oh  !  for  a  quo  warranto 
to  show  by  what  authority  he  wore  a  tur- 
ban !  Was  there  any  hypocrisy  in  his  sad 
brow  ? — Poor  Mummy  ! 

The  editor  of  the  Table  Book  ought  to 
perpetuate  his  features.  He  was  part  of 
the  living  furniture  of  the  city — Have  not 
our  grandfathers  seen  him  ? 

The  tithe  of  a  page  from  thy  pen  on  this 
subject,  surmounted  by  "  a  true  portraic- 
ture  &  effigies,"  would  be  a  treat  to  me  and 
many  more.  If  thou  art  stil  Etr* — if 


195 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


19* 


liou  art  yet  that  gentle  creature  who  has 
immortalized  his  predilection  for  the  sow's 
jaby— roasted  without  sage — thi's  boon  wilt 
fcou  not  deny  me.  Take  the  matter  upon 
/iee  speedily. — Wilt  thou  not  endorse  thy 
Pegasus  with  this  pleasant  fardel  ? 

An*  thou  wilt  not  I  shall  be  malicious 
and  wish  thee  some  trifling  evil :  to  wit — 
6y  way  of  revenge  for  the  appetite  which 
thou  hast  created  among  the  reading  pub- 
lic for  the  infant  progeny — the  rising  gene- 
ration of  swine — I  will  wish  that  some  of 
the  old  demoniac  leaven  may  rise  up  against 
thee  in  the  modern  pigs : — that  thy  sleep 
may  be  vexed  with  swinish  visions ;  that  a 
hog  in  armour,  or  a  bashaw  of  a  boar  of  three 
tails,  may  be  thy  midnight  familiar — thy  in- 
cubus ; — that  matronly  sows  may  howl  after 
thee  in  thy  walks  for  their  immolated  off- 
spring ; — that  Mab  may  tickle  thee  into  fits 
"  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail ;" — that  whereso- 
ever thou  goest  to  finger  cash  for  copy- 
right," instead  of  being  paid  in  coin  current, 
thou  mayst  be  enforced  to  receive  thy 
per-sheetage  in  guinea-pigs ; — that  thou 
mayst  frequently  dream  thou  art  sitting 
on  a  hedge-hog ; — that  even  as  Oberon's 
Queen  doated  on  the  translated  Bottom,  so 
may  thy  batchelorly  brain  doat  upon  an 

ideal  image  of  the  swine-faced  lady 

Finally,  I  will  wish,  that  when  next  G.  D. 
visits  thee,  he  may,  by  mistake,  take  away 
thy  hat,  and  leave  thee  his  own     — 
"  Think  of  that  Master  Brook." — 
Yours  ever, 

E.  C.     M.  D. 
January  31, 1827. 


literature. 

GLANCES  AT  NEW  BOOKS  ON  MY  TABLE. 

SPECIMENS  OF  BRITISH  POETESSES  ;  se- 
lected, and  chronologically  arranged,  by 
the  Rev.  Alexander  Dyce,  1827,  cr.  8vo. 
pp.  462. 

-Mr.  Dyce  remarks  that,  "from  the  great 
Collections  of  the  English  Poets,  where  so 
many  worthless  compositions  find  a  place, 
the  productions  of  women  have  been  care- 
fully excluded."  This  utter  neglect  of  fe- 
male talent  produces  a  counteracting  effort : 
"  the  object  of  the  present  volume  is  to 
exhibit  the  growth  and  progress  of  the 
genius  of  our  countrywomen  in  the  depart- 
ment of  poetry."  The  collection  of  "  Poems 
by  eminent  Ladies,"  edited  by  the  elder 
Colman  and  Bonnel  Thornton,  contained 
specimens  of  only  eighteen  female  writers  ; 
Mr.  Dyce  offers  specimens  of  the  poetry  of 


eighty-eight,  ten  of  whom  are  still  living. 
He  commences  with  the  dame  Juliana  Ber- 
ners,  Prioress  of  the  Nunnery  of  Sopwell, 
"  who  resembled  an  abbot  in  respect  ol 
exercising  an  extensive  manorial  jurisdic- 
tion, and  who  hawked  and  hunted  in  com- 
mon with  other  ladies  of  distinction,''  and 
wrote  in  rhyme  on  field  sports.  The  volume 
concludes  with  Miss  Landon,  whose  initials, 
L.  E.  L ,  are  attached  to  a  profusion  of 
talented  poetry,  in  different  journals. 

The  following  are  not  to  be  regarded  as 
examples  of  the  charming  variety  selected 
by  Mr.  Dyce,  in  illustration  of  his  purpose, 
but  rather  as  "  specimens "  of  peculiar 
thinking,  or  for  their  suitableness  to  the 
present  time  of  the  year. 

Our  language  does  not  afford  a  more 
truly  noble  specimen  of  verse,  dignified  by 
high  feeling,  than  the  following  chorus  from 
"  The  Tragedy  of  Mariam,  161 3,"  ascribed 
to  lady  Elizabeth  Carew. 

Revenge  of  Injuries. 

The  fairest  action  of  our  human  life 
Is  scorning  to  revenge  an  injury  ; 
For  who  forgives  without  a  further  strife. 

His  adversary's  heart  to  him  doth  tie. 
And  'tis  a  firmer  conquest  truly  said. 
To  win  the  heart,  than  overthrow  the  head. 

If  we  a  worthy  enemy  do  find, 

To  yield  to  worth  it  must  be  nobly  done ; 
But  if  of  baser  metal  be  his  mind. 

In  base  revenge  there  is  no  honour  won. 
Who  would  a  worthy  courage  overtli  ,-.->vr, 
And  who  would  wrestle  with  a  worthless  foe? 

We  say  OUT  hearts  are  great  and  cannot  yield ; 

Because  they  cannot  yield,  U  proves  them  poor : 
Great  hearts  are  task'd  beyond  their  power,  bat  seli 

The  weakest  lion  will  the  loudest  roar. 
Truth's  school  for  certain  doth  this  same  allow, 
High-heartedness  doth  sometimes  teach  to  bow. 

A  noble  heart  doth  teach  a  virtuous  scorn. 

To  scorn  to  owe  a  duty  overlong ; 
To  scorn  to  be  for  benefits  forborne, 

To  scorn  to  lie,  to  scorn  to  do  a  wrong. 
To  scorn  to  bear  an  injury  in  inind, 
To  scorn  a  free-born  heart  slave-like  to  bind. 

But  if  for  wrongs  we  needs  revenge  must  have, 
Then  be  oar  vengeance  of  the  noblest  kind  ; 
Do  we  his  body  from  our  fury  save, 

And  let  our  hate  prevail  against  our  mind  ? 
What  can,  'gainst  him  a  greater  vengeance  be, 
Than  make  his  foe  more  worthy  far  than  he  ? 

Had  Mariam  scorn'd  to  leave  a  due  unpaid. 

She  would  to  Herod  then  have  paid  her  lore , 
And  not  have  been  by  sullen  passion  sway'd. 

To  fi-x  her  thoughts  all  injury  above 
Is  virtuous  pride.    Had  Mariam  thus  been  proad. 
Long  famous  life  to  her  had  been  allow'd. 


197 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


198 


Margaret  duchess  of  Newcastle,  who 
lied  in  1673,  "  filled  nearly  twelve  volumes 
iblio  with  plays,  poems,  orations,  philoso- 
phical discourses,"and  miscellaneous  pieces. 
Her  lord  also  amused  himself  with  his 
pen.  This  noble  pair  were  honoured  by 
the  ridicule  of  Horace  Walpole,  who  had 
more  taste  than  feeling;  and, notwithstand- 
ing the  great  qualities  of  the  duke,  who 
sacrificed  three  quarters  of  a  million  in 
lhankless  devotion  to  the  royal  cause, 
and,  though  the  virtues  of  his  duchess  are 
flnquestionable,  the  author  of  "  The  Dor- 
mant and  Extinct  Baronage  of  England" 
joins  Walpole  in  contempt  of  their  affec- 
tion, and  the  means  they  employed  to 
render  each  other  happy  during  retirement. 
This  is  an  extract  from  one  of  the  duchess's 
poems  : — 

Melancholy. 

I  dwell  in  groves  that  gilt  are  with  the  sun, 
Sit  on  the  banks  by  which  clear  waters  rnn ; 
In  summers  hot  down  in  a  shade  I  lie. 
My  music  is  the  buzzing  of  a  fly  ; 
I  walk  in  meadows,  where  grows  fresh  green  grass, 
In  fields,  where  corn  is  high,  I  often  pass; 
Walk  up  the  hills,  where  round  I  prospects  see, 
Some  brushy  woods,  and  some  all  cham pains  be  ; 
Returning  back,  I  in  fresh  pastures  go, 
To  hear  how  sheep  do  bleat,  and  cows  do  low; 
In  winter  cold,  when  nipping  frosts  come  on, 
Then  I  do  live  in  a  small  house  alone  ; 

Altho'  tis  plain,  yet  cleanly  'tis  within, 

Like  to  a  soul  that's  pure  and  clear  from  sin; 

And  ihere  I  dwell  in  quiet  and  still  peace, 

Not  fill'd  with  cares  how  riches  to  increase  ; 

I  wish  nor  seek  for  vain  and  fruitless  pleasures. 

No  riches  are,  but  what  the  mind  iutreasnres. 

Thus  am  I  solitary,  live  alone, 

Yet  better  lov'd,  the  more  that  I  am  known; 

A&d  tho'  my  face  ill-favour'd  at  first  sight, 

After  acquaintance  it  will  give  delight. 

Refuse  me  not,  for  I  shall  constant  be, 

Maintain  your  credit  and  your  dignity. 

Elizabeth  Thomas,  (born  1675,  died 
1730,)  in  the  fifteenth  year  of  her  age,  was 
disturbed  in  her  mind,  by  the  sermons  she 
heard  in  attending  her  grandmother  at 
meetings,  and  by  the  reading  of  high  pre- 
destinarian  works.  She  "  languished  for 
some  time,"  in  expectation  of  the  publica- 
tion of  bishop  Burnet's  work  on  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles.  When  she  read  it, 
the  bishop  seemed  to  her  more  candid  in 
stating  the  doctrines  of  the  sects,  than  ex- 
plicit in  his  own  opinion;  and,  in  this 
perplexity,  retiring  to  her  closet,  she  entered 
on  a  self-discussion,  and  wrote  the  follow- 
ing poem : — 


Predestination,  or,  the  Resolution. 

Ah  !  strive  no  more  to  know  what  fate 

Is  preordain'd  for  thee  : 
'Tis  vain  in  this  my  mortal  state, 
For  Heaven's  inscrutable  decree 
Will  only  be  reveal'd  in  vast  Eternity. 

Then,  O  my  soul ! 
Remember  thy  celestial  birth, 
And  live  to  Heaven,  while  here  on  earth  : 
Thy  God  is  infinitely  true. 
All  Justice,  yet  all  Mercy  too : 
To  Him,  then,  thro'  thy  Saviour,  pray 
For  Grace,  to  ifuide  thee  on  thy  way, 

And  give  thee  Will  to  do. 
But  humbly,  for  the  rest,  my  soul  1 
Let  Hope,  and  Faith,  the  limits  be 
Of  thy  presumptuous  curiosity  I 

Mary  Chandler,  born  in  1687,  the 
daughter  of  a  dissenting  minister  at  Bath, 
commended  by  Pope  for  her  poetry,  died  in 
1745.  The  specimen  of  her  verse,  selected 
by  Mr.  Dyce,  is 

Temperance. 

Fatal  effects  of  luxury  and  ease  ! 

We  drink  our  poison,  and  we  eat  disease, 

Indulge  our  senses  at  our  reason's  cost, 

Till  sense  is  pain,  and  reason  hurt,  or  lost 

Not  so,  O  Temperance  bland  t  when  rul'd  by  thee, 

The  brute's  obedient,  and  the  man  is  free. 

Soft  are  his  slumbers,  balmy  is  his  rest, 

His  veins  not  boiling  from  the  midnight  feast. 

Touch'd  by  Aurora's  rosy  hand,  he  wakes 

Peaceful  and  calm,  and  with  the  world  partakes 

The  joyful  dawnings  of  returning  day, 

For  which  their  grateful  thanks  the  whole  creation  pay, 

All  but  the  human  brute :  'tis  he  alone, 

Whose  works  of  darkness  fly  the  rising  sun. 

'Tis  to  thy  rules,  O  Temperance !  that  we  owe 

All  pleasures,  which  from  health  and  strength  cau  flow; 

Vigour  of  body,  purity  of  mind, 

Unclouded  reason,  sentiments  refin'd, 

Unmixt,  untainted  joys,  without  remorse, 

Th'  intemperate  sinner's  never-failing  curse. 

Elizabeth  Toilet  (born  1694,  died  1754) 
was  authoress  of  Susanna,  a  sacred  drama, 
and  poems,  from  whence  this  is  a  seasonable 
extract : — 

Winter  Song. 

Ask  me  no  more,  my  truth  to  prove, 
What  I  would  suffer  for  my  love  : 
With  thee  I  would  in  exile  go. 
To  regions  of  eternal  snow  ; 
O'er  floods  by  solid  ice  confin'd ; 
Thro'  forest  bare  with  northern  wind ; 
While  ail  around  my  eyes  I  cast, 
Where  all  is  wild  and  all  is  waste. 
If  there  the  timorous  stag  you  cb*i>, 
Or  rouse  to  fight  a  fiercer  race. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


200 


Undaunted  I  thy  arm*  would  bear. 
And  give  thy  hand  the  hunter's  spear. 
When  the  low  sun  withdraw*  his  light, 
And  menaces  an  half  year's  night. 
The  conscious  moon  and  stars  above 
Shall  guide  me  with  my  wandering  lore. 
Beneath  the  mountain's  hollow  brow, 
Or  in  its  rocky  cells  below. 
Thy  rural  feast  I  would  provide  ; 
Nor  envy  palaces  their  pride  ; 
The  softest  moss  should  dress  thy  bed. 
With  savage  spoils  about  thee  spread ; 
While  faithful  love  the  watch  should  keep. 
To  banish  danger  from  thy  sleep. 

Mrs.  Tighe  died  in  1810.  Mr.  Dyce 
says,  "  Of  this  highly-gifted  Irishwoman,  I 
have  not  met  with  any  poetical  account; 
but  I  learn,  from  the  notes  to  her  poems, 
that  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  Rev. 
William  Blachford,  and  that  she  died  in 
her  thirty -seventh  year.  In  the  Psyche  of 
Mrs.  Tighe  are  several  pictures,  conceived 
in  the  true  spirit  of  poetry  ;  while  over  the 
whole  composition  is  spread  the  richest 
glow  of  purified  passion."  Besides  spe- 
cimens from  that  delightful  poem,  Mr. 
Dyce  extracts 

The  Lily. 

How  wither'd,  perish'd  seems  the  form 

Of  yon  obscure  unsightly  root  I 
Yet  from  the  blight  of  wintry  storm. 

It  hides  secure  the  precious  fruit. 

The  careless  eye  can  find  no  grace, 

No  beauty  in  the  scaly  folds, 
Nor  see  within  the  dark  embrace 

What  latent  loveliness  it  holds. 

Yet  in  that  bulb,  those  sapless  scales. 

The  lily  wraps  her  silver  vest, 
Till  vernal  suns  and  vernal  gales 

Shall  kiss  once  more  her  fragrant  breast. 

Yes,  hide  beneath  the  mouldering  heap 
The  undelighting  slighted  thing  ; 

There  in  the  cold  earth  buried  deep. 
In  silence  let  it  wait  the  Spring. 

•  Oh  !  many  a  stormy  night  shall  close 

In  gloom  upon  the  barren  ea*th. 
While  still,  in  undisturb'd  repose, 
Uninjur*d  lies  the  future  birth ; 

And  Ignorance,  with  sceptic  eye, 
Hope's  patient  smile  shall  wondering  new ; 

Or  mock  her  fond  credulity, 
As  her  soft  tears  the  spot  bedew. 

S\»iet  smile  of  hope,  delicious  tear  I 
The  sun,  the  shower  indeed  shall  come  ; 

fie  promis'd  reidant  shoot  appear, 
And  nature  bid  her  blossoms  bloom. 


And  thon,  O  virgin  Queen  of  Spring  1 
Shalt,  from  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed, 

Bursting  thy  green  sheath'd  silken  string. 
Unveil  thy  charms,  and  perfume  shed  ; 

Unfold  thy  robes  of  purest  white, 
Unsullied  from  their  darksome  grave. 

And  thy  soft  petals'  silvery  light 
In  the  mild  breeze  unfetter'd  wave. 

So  Faith  shall  seek  the  lowly  dust 
Where  humble  Sorrow  loves  to  lie, 

And  bid  her  thus  her  hopes  intrust. 
And  watch  with  patient,  cheerful  eye ; 

And  bear  the  long,  cold  wintry  night, 
And  bear  her  own  degraded  doom, 

And  wait  till  Heaven's  reviving  light, 
Eternal  Spring!  shall  burst  the  gloom. 

Every  one  is  acquainted  with  the  beau- 
tiful ballad  which  is  the  subject  of  the  fol- 
lowing notice;  yet  the  succinct  history,  and 
the  present  accurate  text,  may  justify  the 
insertion  of  both. 

Lady  Anne  Barnard. 


Born 


-  died  1825. 


Sister  of  the  late  Earl  of  Balcarras,  and  wife  of  Sir 
Andrew  Barnard,  wrote  the  charming  song  of 
Auld  Robin  Gray. 

A  quarto  tract,  edited  by  "  the  Ariosto  of  the  North," 
and  circulated  among  the  members  of  the  Banna- 
tyne  Club,  contains  the  original  ballad,  as  cor- 
rected by  Lady  Anne,  and  two  Continuations  by 
the  same  authoress  ;  while  the  Introduction  con- 
sists almost  entirely  of  a  very  interesting  letter 
from  her  to  the  Editor,  dated  July  1823,  part  of 
which  I  take  the  liberty  of  inserting  here : — 

••'Robin  Gray,'  so  called  from  its  being  the  name  of 
the  old  herd  at  Balcarras,  was  born  soon  after  the 
close  of  the  year  1771-  My  sister  Margaret  had 
married,  and  accompanied  her  husband  to  London; 
I  was  melancholy,  and  endeavoured  to  amuse  my- 
self by  attempting  a  few  poetical  trifles.  There 
was  an  ancient  Scotch  melody,  of  which  I  wa« 

passionately  foad  ; ,  who  lived  before 

your  day,  used  to  sing  it  to  us  at  Balcarras.  She 
did  not  object  to  its  having  improper  words, 
though  I  did.  I  longed  to  sing  old  Sophy's  air  to 
different  words,  and  give  to  its  plaintive  tones 
some  little  history  of  virtuous  distress  in  humble 
life,  such  as  might  suit  it.  While  attempting  to 
effect  this  in  my  closet,  I  called  to  my  little  sister, 
now  Lady  Hardwicke,  who  was  the  only  person 
near  me, '  I  have  been  writing  a  ballad,  my  dear  ; 
I  am  oppressing  my  heroine  with  many  misfor- 
tunes. I  have  already  sent  her  Jamie  to  sea — and 
broken  her  father's  arm — and  made  her  mother 
fall  sick — and  given  her  Auld  Robin  Gray  for  her 
lover  ;  but  I  wish  to  load  her  with  a  fifth  sorrow 
within  the  four  lines,  poor  thing  !  Help  ma  to 
one.' — '  Steal  the  cow,  sister  Anne,'  said  the  little 
Klizabeth.  The  cow  was  immediately  lifted  by 
roe,  and  the  song  completed.  At  our  fireside,  and 


201 


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202 


&mongst  our  neighbours, '  Auld  Robin  Gray '  was 
always  called  for.  I  was  pleased  in  secret  with 
the  approbation  it  met  with ;  but  such  was  my 
dread  of  being  suspected  of  writing  anything, 
perceiving  the  shyness  it  created  in  those  who 
could  write  nothing,  that  I  carefully  kept  my  own 
secret.  *  »  •  * 

"Meantime,  little  as  this  matter  seems  to  have  been 
worthy  of  a  dispute,  it  afterwards  became  a  party 
question  between  the  sixteenth  and  eighteenth  cen- 
turies. '  Robin  Gray '  was  either  a  very  very 
ancient  ballad,  composed  perhaps  by  David  Rizzio, 
and  a  great  curiosity,  or  a  very  very  modern 
matter,  and  no  curiosity  at  all.  I  was  persecuted 
to  avow  whether  I  had  written  it  or  not, — where 
I  had  got  it.  Old  Sophy  kept  my  counsel,  and  I 
kept  my  own,  in  spite  of  the  gratification  of  seeing 
a  reward  of  twenty  guineas  offered  in  the  news- 
papers to  the  person  who  should  ascertain  the 
point  past  a  doubt,  and  the  still  more  flattering 
circumstance  of  a  visit  from  Mr.  Jerningham, 
secretary  to  the  Antiquarian  Society,  who  endea- 
voured to  entrap  the  truth  from  me  in  a  manner  I 
took  amiss.  Had  lie  asked  me  the  question  oblig- 
ingly, I  should  have  told  him  the  fact  distinctly 
and  confidentially.  The  annoyance,  however,  of 
this  important  ambassador  from  the  Antiquaries, 
was  amply  repaid  to  me  by  the  noble  exhibition  of 
the  '  Ballat  of  Auld  Robin  Gray's  Courtship,'  as 
performed  by  dancing-cogs  under  my  window.  It 
proved  its  popularity  from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest,  and  gave  me  pleasure  while  I  hugged  my- 
self in  obscurity." 

The  two  versions  of  the  second  part  were  written  many 
years  after  the  first ;  in  them,  Auld  Robin  Gray 
falls  sick,— confesses  that  he  himself  stole  the  cow, 
in  order  to  force  Jenny  to  marry  him, — leaves  to 
Jamie  all  his  possessions, — dies, — and  the  young 
couple,  of  course,  are  united.  Neither  of  the  Con- 
tinuations is  given  here,  because,  though  both  are 
beautiful,  they  are  very  inferior  to  the  original 
tale,  and  greatly  injure  its  effect. 

Auld  Robin  Gray.* 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when  the  cows  come 

hame, 

When  a'  the  weary  world  to  quiet  rest  are  gane, 
The  woes  of  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  ee, 
Unken'd  by  my  gudeman,  who  soundly  sleeps  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  loo'd  me  weel,  and  sought  me   for  his 

bride ; 

But  saving  ae  crown-piece,  he'd  naethingelse  beside. 
To  make  the  crown  a  pound,t  my  Jamie  gaed  to  sea; 
And  the  crown  and  the  pound,  O  they  were  baith  for 

me! 


Before  he  had  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  an<i  a  day, 
My  father  brak  his  arm,  our  cow  was  stowo  away ; 
My  mother  she  fell  sick — my  Jamie  was  at  sea — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray,  oh  !  he  came  a-courting  me, 

My  father  coti'dna  work — my  mother  cou'dna  spin  ; 
I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  cou'dna  win  ; 
Auld  Rob  maintain'd  them  baith,  and,  wi'  tears  in  hu 

ee, 
Said,  "  Jenny,  oh  !  for  their  sakes,  will  you  marry  me  ?' 

My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I  look'd  for  Jami;  back; 
But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a  wrack  : 
His  ship  it  was  a  wrack  !  Why  didna  Jamie  dee? 
Or,  wherefore  am  I  spar'd  to  cry  out,  Woe  is  me  I 

My  father  argued  sair — my  mother  didna  speak, 

But  she  look'd  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to 

break ; 

They  gied  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was  in  the  sea ; 
And  so  auld  Robin  Gray,  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  his  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
When  mournfu"  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  my  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  ghaist — I  cou'dna  think  it  he, 
Till  he  said,  "  I'm  come  hame,  ray  love,  to  marry  theel 

0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  *ay  of  a* ; 
Ae  kiss  we  took,  nae  mair — I  bad  him  gang  awa. 

1  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  no  like  to  <Jee ; 
For  O,  I  am  but  young  to  cry  out,  Woe  is  me  1 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  much  to  spin ; 
I  darena  think  o'  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin. 
But  I  will  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be, 
For  auld  Robin  Gray,  oh !  he  is  sae  kind  to  me. 

The  great  and  remarkable  merit  of  Mr. 
Dyce  is,  that  in  this  beautifully  printed  vo- 
lume, he  has  reared  imperishable  columns  to 
the  honour  of  the  sex,  without  a  questionable 
trophy.  His  "  specimens"  are  an  assem- 
blage so  individually  charming,  that  the 
mind  is  delighted  by  every  part  whereon  the 
eye  rests,  and  scrupulosity  itself  cannot 
make  a  single  rejection  on  pretence  of 
inadequate  merit.  He  comes  as  a  rightful 
herald,  marshalling  the  perfections  of  each 
poetess,  and  discriminating  with  so  much 
delicacy,  that  each  of  his  pages  is  a  page  of 
honour  to  a  high-born  grace,  or  dignified 
beauty.  His  book  is  an  elegant  tribute  to 
departed  and  living  female  genius;  and 
while  it  claims  respect  from  every  lady  in 
the  land  for  its  gallantry  to  the  fair,  its  in- 
trinsic worth  is  sure  to  force  it  into  every 
well-appointed  library. 


•  The  text  of  the  corrected  copy  is  followed. 

"  I  must  also  mention  "  (says  lady  Anne,  in  the 
letter  already  quoted)  "  the  laird  of  Da'ziel's  advice, 
who,  in  a  tetc-a-tetc,  afterwards  said,  •  My  dear,  the 

next  time  you  sing  that  song,  try  to  change  the  words  a  lassie  tnac  aitina  Ken  me  v»mc  ui  me  *j\.v*.o  muuc-j 
wee  bit,  and  instead  of  singing,  '  To  make  the  crown  a  quite  so  well  as  an  auld  writer  in  the  town  of  Edm- 
pound,  my  Jamie  gaed  to  sea,'  sayr  to  make  it  twenty  burtrh  would  have  kent  it.'" 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


204 


tring  £>erbante  at  a  Statute  jfafr* 


This  engraving  may  illustrate  Mr.  Fare's 
account  of  the  Warwickshire  "  statute"  or 
"  mop,"*  and  the  general  appearance  of 
similar  fairs  for  hiring  servants.  Even  in 
London,  bricklayers,  and  other  house- 
tabourers,  still  carry  their  respective  im- 
plements to  the  places  where  they  stand 
for  hire  :  for  which  purpose  they  assemble 
in  great  numbers  in  Cheapside  and  at 
Charing-cross,  every  morning,  at  five  or 
six  o'clock.  It  is  further  worthy  of  ob- 
servation, that,  in  old  Rome,  there  were 
Varticular  spots  in  which  servants  applied 
for  hire. 

Dr.  Plott,  speaking  of  the  Statutes  for 
hiring  servants,  says,  that  at  Bloxham  the 
carters  stood  with  their  whips  in  one  plade, 
'nd  the  shepherds  with  their  crooks  in 
another ;  but  the  maids,  as  far  as  he  could 
observe,  stood  promiscuously.  He  adds, 
that  this  custom  seems  as  old  as  our 
Saviour;  and  refers  to  Matt.  x-x.  3,  "And 


At  ?.  171- 


he  went  out  about  the  third  hour  and  saw 
others  standing  idle  in  the  market-place." 

In  the  statistical  account  of  Scotland,  it 
is  said  that,  at  the  parish  of  Wamphray, 
"  Hiring  fairs  are  much  frequented:  those 
who  are  to  hire  wear  a  green  sprig  in  their 
hat :  and  it  is  very  seldom  that  servants 
will  hire  in  any  other  place." 

Of  ancient  chartered  fairs  may  be  in- 
stanced as  an  example,  the  fair  of  St.  Giles's 
Hill  or  Down,  near  Winchester,  which 
William  the  Conqueror  instituted  and  gave 
as  a  kind  of  revenue  to  the  bishop  of 
Winchester.  It  was  at  first  for  three 
days,  but  afterwards  by  Henry  III.,  pro- 
longed to  sixteen  days.  Its  jurisdiction 
extended  seven  miles  round,  and  compre- 
hended even  Southampton,  then  a  capital 
and  trading  town.  Merchants  who  sold 
wares  at  that  time  within  that  circuit  for- 
feited them  to  the  bishop.  Officers  were 
placed  at  a  considerable  distance,  at 
bridges  and  other  avenues  of  access  to  the 
fair,  to  exact  toll  of  all  merchandise  passing 
that  way.  In  the  mean  time,  all  shops  in 


205 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


200 


the  city  of  Winchester  were  shut.  A 
court,  called  the  pavilion,  composed  of  the 
bishop's  justiciaries  and  other  officers,  had 
power  to  try  causes  of  various  sorts  for 
seven  miles  round.  The  bishop  had  a  toll 
of  every  load  or  parcel  of  goods  passing 
through  the  gates  of  the  city.  On  St. 
Giles's  eve  the  mayor,  bailiffs,  and  citizens 
of  Winchester  delivered  the  keys  of  the 
four  gates  to  the  bishop's  officers.  Many 
and  extraordinary  were  the  privileges 
granted  to  the  bishop  on  this  occasion,  all 
tending  to  obstruct  trade  and  to  oppress 
the  people.  Numerous  foreign  merchants 
frequented  this  fair ;  and  several  streets 
were  formed  in  it,  assigned  to  the  sale  of 
different  commodities.  The  surrounding 
monasteries  had  shops  or  houses  in  these 
streets,  used  only  at  the  fair ;  which  they 
held  under  the  bishop,  and  often  let  by 
lease  for  a  term  of  years.  Different  coun- 
ties had  their  different  stations. 

According  to  a  curious  record  of  the 
establishment  and  expenses  of  the  house- 
hold of  Henry  Percy,  the  fifth  earl  of 
Northumberland,  A.  D.  1512,  the  stores  of 
his  lordship's  house  at  Wresille,  for  the 
whole  year,  were  laid  in  from  fairs.  The 
articles  were  "  wine,  wax,  beiffes,  muttons, 
wheite,  and  malt."  This  proves  that  fairs 
were  then  the  principal  marts  for  purchas- 
ing necessaries  in  large  quantities,  which 
are  now  supplied  by  frequent  trading 
towns :  and  the  mention  of  "  beiffes  and 
mnttous."  (which  are  salted  oxen  and  sheep,) 
shows  that  at  so  late  a  period  they  knew 
little  ct  breeding  cattle. 

The  monks  of  the  priories  of  Maxtoke  in 
Warwickshire,  and  of  Bicester  in  Oxford- 
shire, in  the  time  of  Henry  VI.,  appear  to 
have  laid  in  yearly  stores  of  various,  yet 
common  necessaries,  at  the  fair  of  Stour- 
bridge,  in  Cambridgeshire,  at  least  one 
hundred  miles  distant  from  either  mo- 
nastery. 


Type  of  his  state, 

(Perchance  a  hostage 
To  double  fate) 

For  single  postage  • 
Emblem  of  his  and  my  Cupidity  ; 
With  p'rhaps  'ike  happy  end — stupidity. 


14. 


VALENTINE'S  DAY. 

Now  each  fond  youth  who  ere  essay'd 
An  effort  in  the  tinkling  trade, 
Resumes  to  day  ;   and  writes  and  blots 
About  true-love  and  true-love's-knots  ; 
And  opens  veins  in  ladies'  hearts  ; 
(Or  steels  'em)  with  two  cris-cross  darts, 
(There  mast  be  two) 
Stuck  through  (and  through) 
His  own:   and  then  to  s'cu  re  'em  better 
ri«  doubles  up  his  single  letter  — 


FRENCH  VALENTINES. 

Menage,  in  his  Etymological  Dictionary, 
has  accounted  for  the  term  "Valentine," 
by  stating  that  Madame  Royale,  daughter 
of  Henry  the  Fourth  of  France,  having 
built  a  palace  near  Turin,  which,  in  honour 
of  the  saint,  then  in  high  esteem,  she  called 
the  Valentine,  at  the  first  entertainment 
which  she  gave  in  it,  was  pleased  to  order 
that  the  ladies  should  receive  their  lovers 
for  the  year  by  lots,  reserving  to  herself  the 
privilege  of  being  independent  of  chance, 
and  of  choosing  her  own  partner.  At  the 
various  balls  which  this  gallant  princess 
gave  during  the  year,  it  was  directed  that 
each  lady  should  receive  a  nosegay  from 
her  lover,  and  that,  at  every  tournament, 
the  knight's  trappings  for  his  horse  should 
be  furnished  by  his  allotted  mistress,  with 
this  proviso,  that  the  prize  obtained  should 
be  hers.  This  custom,  says  Menage,  oc- 
casioned the  parties  to  be  called  "  Valen- 
tines."* 


An  elegant  writer,  in  a  journal  of  the 
present  month,  prepares  for  the  annual 
festival  with  the  following 

LEGEND  OF  ST.  VALENTINE. 

From  Britain's  realm,  in  olden  time. 
By  the  strong  power  of  truths  sublime. 

The  pagan  rites  were  banish'd ; 
And,  spite  of  Greek  and  Roman  lore, 
PJach  god  and  goddess,  fam'd  of  yort, 

From  grove  and  altar  vanish'd. 

And  they  (as  sure  became  them  best) 
To  Austin  and  Paulinins'  best 

Obediently  submitted, 
And  left  the  land  without  delay — 
Save  Cupid,  who  still  held  a  sway 
Too  strong  to  passively  obey, 

Or  be  by  saints  outwitted. 

For  well  the  boy-god  knew  that  he 
Was  far  too  potent,  e'er  to  be 
Depos'd  and  exil'd  quietly 

From  his  belov'd  dominion  ; 
And  sturdily  the  urchin  swore 
He  ne'er,  to  leave  the  British  shore, 

Would  move  a  single  pinion. 

»  Dr.  Drake's  Shakspeare  and  his  Times.     See  alaa 
the  Every-Day  Booh  for  largo  particular*  of  the  day. 


107 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


20S 


The  saints  at  this  were  sadly  vex'd. 
And  much  their  holy  brains  perplex'd, 

To  bring  the  boy  to  reason ; 
And,  when  they  found  him  bent  to  stay. 
They  built  up  convent-walls  straightway, 

And  put  poor  Love  in  prison. 

But  Cupid,  though  a  captive  made. 
Soon  met,  within  a  convent  shade, 

New  subjects  in  profusion  : 
Albeit  he  found  his  pagan  name 
Was  heard  by  pious  maid  and  dame 

With  horror  and  confusion. 

For  all  were  there  demure  and  coy. 
And  deem'd  a  rebel  heathen  boy 

A  most  unsaintly  creature  ; 
But  Cupid  found  a  way  with  ease 
His  slyest  vot'ries  tastes  to  please. 

And  yet  not  change  a  feature. 

For,  by  his  brightest  dart,  the  elf 
Affirm'd  he'd  turn  a  saint  himself, 

To  make  their  scruples  lighter  ; 
So  gravely  hid  his  dimpled  smiles, 
His  wreathed  locks,  and  playful  wiles, 

Beneath  a  bishop's  mitre. 

Then  Christians  rear'd  the  boy  a  shrinP, 
And  youths  invok'd  Saint  Valentine 

To  bless  their  annual  passion  ; 
And  maidens  still  his  name  revere, 
And,  smiling,  hail  his  day  each  year— 
A  day  to  village  lovers  dear. 

Though  saints  are  out  of  fashion. 


Monthly  Magazine. 


A.S. 


Another  is  pleased  to  treat  the  prevailing 
topic  of  the  day  as  one  of  those  "  whims 
and  oddities,"  which  exceedingly  amuse 
the  reading  world,  and  make  e'en  sighing 
lovers  smile. 

SONG 
FOR  THE  14th  OF  FEBRUARY. 

By  a  General  Lover. 
"  Mille  gravem  telis  exhausta  pene  pharetra." 
Apollo  has  peep'd  through  the  shutter, 

And  waken'd  the  witty  and  fair  ; 
The  boarding-school  belle's  in  a  flutter. 

The  twopenny  post's  in  despair: 
The  breath  of  the  morning  is  flinging 

A  magic  on  blossom,  on  spray  ; 
And  cockneys  and  sparrows  are  singing 
In  chorus  on  Valentine's  Day. 

Away  with  ye,  dreams  of  disaster. 

Away  with  ye,  visions  of  law, 
Of  cases  I  never  shall  master, 

Of  pleadings  I  never  shall  draw : 
Away  with  ye,  parchments  and  papers. 

Red  tapes,  unread  volumes,  away ; 
It  gives  a  fond  lover  the  vapours 

To  tee  yon  on  Valentine's  Day. 


I'll  sit  in  my  nightcap,  like  Hay  ley, 

I'll  sit  with  my  arms  crost,  like  Spain, 
Till  joys,  which  are  vanishing  daily, 

Come  back  in  their  lustre  again  : 
Oh,  shall  I  look  over  the  waters, 

Or  shall  I  look  over  the  way. 
For  the  brightest  and  best  of  Earth's  daughters. 

To  rhyme  to  on  Valentine's  Day  ? 
Shall  I  crown  with  my  worship,  for  fame's  sake, 

Some  goddess  whom  Fashion  has  starr'd. 
Make  puns  on  Miss  Love  and  her  namesake, 

Or  pray  for  a  pas  with  Brocard  ? 
Shall  I  flirt,  in  romantic  idea, 

With  Chester's  adorable  clay, 
Or  whisper  in  transport,  "  Si  mea  * 

Cum  Vestris—  "  on  Valentine's  Day  ? 
Shall  I  kneel  to  a  Sylvia  or  Celia, 

Whom  no  one  e'er  saw  or  may  see, 
A  fancy-drawn  Laura  Amelia, 

An  ad  libit.  Anna  Marie  ? 
Shall  I  court  an  initial  with  stars  to  it, 

(j'j  mad  for  a  G.  or  a  J. 
Get  Bishop  to  put  a  few  bars  to  it. 

And  print  it  on  Valentine's  Day  ?        % 
Alas  !  ere  I'm  properly  frantic 

With  some  such  pure  figment  as  this, 
Some  visions,  not  quite  so  romantic, 

Start  up  to  demolish  the  bliss  ; 
Some  Will  o'  the  Wisp  in  a  bonnet 

Still  leads  my  lost  wit  quite  astray. 
Till  up  to  my  ears  in  a  sonnet 

I  sink  upon  Valentine's  Day. 
The  Dian  I  half  bought  a  ring  for, 

On  seeing  her  thrown  in  the  ring ; 
The  Naiad  I  took  such  a  spring  for. 

From  Waterloo  Bridge,  in  the  spring; 
The  trembler  I  saved  from  a  robber,  on 

My  walk  to  the  Champs  Elyse'e  ! — 
The  warbl;r  that  fainted  at  Oberou, 

Three  months  before  Valentine's  Day. 
The  gipsy  I  once  had  a  spill  with, 

Bad  luck  to  the  Paddington  team  ! 
The  countess  I  chanced  to  be  ill  with 

From  Dover  to  Calais  by  steam  ; 
The  lass  that  makes  tea  for  Sir  Stephen, 

The  lassie  that  brings  in  the  tray  ; 
It's  odd — but  the  betting  is  even 

Between  them  on  Valentine's  Day. 
The  white  hands  I  help'd  in  their  nutting  ; 

The  fair  neck  I  cloak'd  in  the  rain  ; 
The  bright  eyes  that  thank'd  me  for  cutting 

My  friend  in  Emmanuel-lane  ; 
The  Blue  that  admires  Mr.  Barrow ; 

The  Saint  that  adores  Lewis  Way  ; 
The  Nameless  that  dated  from  Harrow 

Three  couplets  last  Valentine's  Day. 
I  think  not  of  Laura  the  witty. 

For,  oh  !  she  is  married  at  York  ! 
I  sigh  not  for  Rose  of  the  City, 

For,  ah  !  she  is  buried  at  Cork  ! 

•  "  Si  mea  cum  V»stris  valuissent  vota !"— OVID,  Mtt 


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tlO 


Adele  has  a  braver  and  better 
To  say  what  I  never  couid  say ; 

Louise  cannot  construe  a  letter 
Of  English  on  Valentine's  Day. 

So  perish  the  leaves  in  the  arbour, 

The  tree  is  all  bare  in  the  blast ! 
Like  a  wreck  that  is  drifting  to  harbour, 

I  come  to  thee,  Lady,  at  last . 
Where  art  thou  so  lovely  and  lonely  ? 

Though  idle  the  lute  and  the  lay, 
The  lute  and  the  lay  are  thine  only, 

My  fairest,  on  Valentine's  Day. 

For  thee  I  have  open'd  my  Blackstone, 

For  thee  I  have  shut  up  myself ; 
Exchanged  my  long  curls  for  a  Caxton, 

And  laid  my  short  whist  on  the  shelf ; 
For  thee  I  have  sold  my  old  Sherry, 

For  thee  I  have  bnrn'd  my  new  play  ; 
And  I  grow  philosophical— very  ! 

Except  upon  Valentine's  Day. 

New  Monthly  Magazine. 


ID  the  poems  of  Elizabeth  Trefusis  there 
is  a"  Valentine"  with  an  expression  of  feel- 
ing which  may  well  conclude  the  extracts 
already  produced. 

When  to  Love's  influence  woman  yields, 
She  loves  for  life !  and  daily  feels 
Progressive  tenderness  ! — each  hour 
Confirms,  extends,  the  tyrant's  power  I 
Her  lover  is  her  god  !  her  fate ! — 
Vain  pleaeures,  riches,  worldly  state, 
Are  trifle*  all  1 — each  sacrifice 
Becomes  a  dear  and  valued  prize, 
If  made  for  him,  e'en  tho'  he  proves 
Forgetful  of  their  former  loves. 


AIR  AND  EXERCISE 
FOR  LADIES. 

There  is  a  notion,  that  air  spoils  the  com- 
plexion. It  is  possible,  that  an  exposure 
to  all  weathers  might  do  so ;  though  if  a 
gipsy  beauty  is  to  be  said  to  have  a  bad 
complexion,  it  is  one  we  are  very  much 
inclined  to  be  in  love  with.  A  russeton 
apple  has  its  beauty  as  well  as  a  peach.  At 
all  events,  a  spoilt  complexion  of  this  sort 
is  accompanied  with  none  of  the  melan- 
choly attending  the  bad  complexions  that 
arise  from  late  hours,  and  spleen,  and 
plodding,  and  indolence,  and  indigestion. 
Fresh  air  puts  a  wine  in  the  blood  that 
lasts  from  morning  to  night,  and  not 
merely  for  an  hour  or  two  after  dinner.  If 
ladies  would  not  carry  buttered  toast  in 
their  cheeks,  instead  of  roses,  they  must 


shake  the  blood  in  their  veins,  till  it  spins 
clear.     Cheerfulness  itself  helps  to  make 
good  blood  ;  and  air  and   exercise  make 
cheerfulness.      When  it  is  said,  that  air 
spoils  the  complexion,  it  is  not  meant  thai 
breathing  it  does  so,  but  exposure  to  it 
We  are  convinced  it  is  altogether  a  fallacy, 
and  that  nothing  but  a  constant  exposure 
to  the  extremes  of  heat  and  cold  has  any 
such  effect.    The  not  breathing  the  fresh 
air  is  confessedly  injurious ;  and  this  might 
be  done  much  oftener  than  is  supposed. 
People  might  oftener  throw  up  their  win- 
dows, or  admit  the  air  partially,  and  with 
an  effect  sensible  only  to  the  general  feel- 
ings.    We  find,  by  repeated  experiments, 
that  we  can  write  better  and  longer  with 
the  admission  of  air  into  our  study.  We  have 
learnt    also,  by  the  same  experience,   to 
prefer  a  large  study  to  a  small  one ;  and 
here  the  rich,  it  must  be  confessed,  have 
another   advantage   over    us.     They   pass 
their  days  in  large  airy  rooms — in  apart- 
ments that  are  field  and  champain,  com- 
pared to  the  closets  that  we  dignify  with 
the  name  of  parlours  and  drawing-rooms. 
A  gipsy  and  they  are  in  this  respect,  and 
in  many  others,  more  on  a  footing ;  and 
the  gipsy  beauty  and  the  park  beauty  enjoy 
themselves  accordingly.     Can  we  look  at 
that    extraordinary   race   of   persons — we 
mean   the  gipsies — and  not  recognise  the 
wonderful    physical    perfection    to   which 
they  are  brought,  solely  by  their  exemp- 
tion from  some  of  our  most  inveterate  no- 
tions, and  by  dint  of  living  constantly  in 
the  fresh  air  ?     Read  any  of  the  accounts 
that   are   given  of  them,  even  by  writers 
the  most  opposed  to  their  way  of  life,  and 
you  will   find  these  very  writers  refuting 
themselves  and   their  proposed  ameliora- 
tions by  confessing  that  no  human  beings 
can  be  better  formed,  or  healthier,  or  hap- 
pier than  the  gipsies,  so  long  as  they  are 
kept  out  of  the  way  of  towns  and  their 
sophistications.     A  suicide  is  not  known 
among  them.     They  are  as  merry  as  the 
larks  with  which  they  rise ;  have  the  use  of 
their  limbs  to  a  degree  unknown  among 
us,  except  by  our  new  friends  the  gym- 
nasts ;  and  are  as  sharp  in  their  faculties 
as  the  perfection  of  their  frames  can  render 
them.     A  glass  of  brandy  puts  them  into 
a  state  of  unbearable   transport.     It  is   a 
superfluous   bliss ;  wine  added   to   wine  : 
and  the  old  learn  to  do  themselves  mis- 
chief with  it,  and  level  their  condition  with 
stockbrokers   and   politicians.      Yet  these 
are  the  people  whom  some  wiseacres  are 
for  turning  into  bigots  and   manufacturers. 
They  had  much  better  take  them  for  what 


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they  are,  and  for  what  Providence  seems  to 
nave  intended  them — a  memorandum  to 
keep  alive  among  us  the  belief  in  nature, 
and  a  proof  to  what  a  physical  state  of  per- 
fection the  human  being  can  be  brought, 
solely  by  inhaling  her  glorious  breath,  and 
being  exempt  from  our  laborious  mistakes. 
If  the  intelligent  and  the  gipsy  life  could 
ever  be  brought  more  together,  by  any 
rational  compromise,  (and  we  do  not  de- 
spair of  it,  when  we  see  that  calculators 
begin  to  philosophize,)  men  might  attain 
the  greatest  perfection  of  which  they  are 
capable.  Meanwhile  the  gipsies  have  the 
advantage  of  it,  if  faces  are  any  index  of 
health  and  comfort.  A  gipsy  with  an  eye 
fit  for  a  genius,  it  is  not  difficult  to  meet 
with ;  but  where  shall  we  find  a  genius,  or 
even  a  fundholder,  with  the  cheek  and 
health  of  a  gipsy  ? 

There  is  a  fact  well  known  to  physicians, 
which  settles  at  once  the  importance  of 
fresh  air  to  beauty,  as  well  as  health.  It  is, 
that  in  proportion  as  people  stay  at  home, 
and  do  not  set  their  lungs  playing  as  they 
ought,  the  blood  becomes  dark,  and  lags  in 
its  current ;  whereas  the  habit  of  inhaling 
the  air  out  of  doors  reddens  it  like  a  ruby, 
and  makes  it  clear  and  brisk.  Now  the 
darker  the  blood,  the  more  melancholy  the 
sensations,  and  the  worse  the  complexion. 

It  is  common  with  persons  who  inherit  a 
good  stock  of  health  from  their  ancestors, 
to  argue  that  they  take  no  particular  pains 
to  preserve  it,  and  yet  are  well.  Tliis  may 
be  true ;  and  it  is  also  true,  that  there  is  a 
painstaking  to  that  effect,  which  is  super- 
fluous and  morbid,  and  helps  to  do  more 
harm  than  good.  But  it  does  not  follow 
from  either  of  these  truths,  that  a  neglect  of 
the  rational" means  of  retaining  health  will 
ultimately  be  good  for  any  body.  Healthy 
people  may  live  a  good  while  upon  their 
stock.  Children  are  in  the  habit  of  doing 
it.  But  healthy  children,  especially  those 
who  are  foolishly  treated  upon  an  assump- 
tion that  health  consists  in  being  highly  fed, 
and  having  great  beef- eating  cheeks,  very 
often  turn  out  sickly  at  last ;  and  grown-up 
people,  for  the  most  part,  at  least,  in  great 
bwns.  have  as  little  really  good  health,  as 
ctiildren  in  general  are  given  credit  for  the 
Averse.  Nature  does  indeed  provide  libe- 
-ally  for  abuses ;  but  the  abuse  will  be  felt 
at  last.  It  is  generally  felt  a  long  while 
before  it  is  acknowledged.  Then  comes 
aee,  with  all  its  train  of  regrets  and  super- 
stitions; and  the  beauty  and  the  man, 
besides  a  world  perhaps  of  idle  remorse, 
which  they  would  not  feel  but  for  their 
perverted  blood,  could  eat  their  hearts  out 


for  having  been  such  fools  as  not  to  secure 
a  continuance  of  good  looks  and  manly 
feelings,  for  want  of  a  little  handsome 
energy. 

The  ill  taste  of  existence  that  is  so  apt  to 
come  upon  people  in  middle  life,  is  too 
often  attributed  to  moral  causes.  Moral 
they  are,  but  very  often  not  in  the  sense 
imagined.  Whatever  causes  be  mixed  up 
with  them,  the  greatest  of  all  is,  in  ninety- 
nine  instances  out  of  .a  hundred,  no  better 
or  grander  than  a  non-performance  of  the 
common  duties  of  health.  Many  a  fine 
lady  takes  a  surfeit  for  a  tender  distress ; 
and  many  a  real  sufferer,  who  is  haunted 
by  a  regret,  or  takes  himself  for  the  most 
ill-used  of  bilious  old  gentlemen,  might 
trace  the  loftiest  of  his  woes  to  no  better 
origin  than  a  series  of  ham-pies,  or  a  want 
of  proper  use  of  his  boots  and  umbrella.* 

A  SONG. 

Yonng  Joe,  he  was  a  carman  gay, 

As  any  town  could  show  ; 
His  team  was  good,  and,  like  his  pence. 

Was  always  on  the  go  ; 
A  thing,  as  every  jackass  knows, 

Which  often  leads  to  wo  I 
It  fell  out  that  he  fell  in  love, 

By  some  odd  chance  or  whim, 
With  Alice  Payne — beside  whose  eyes 

All  other  eyes  were  dim : 
The  painful  tale  must  out — indeed, 

She  was  A  Pain  to  him. 
For,  when  he  ask'd  her  civilly 

To  make  one  of  they  two, 
She  whipp'd  her  tongue  across  her  teetlt, 

And  said,  "  D'ye  think  it  true, 
I'd  trust  my  load  of  life  with  tich 

A  waggoner  as  you  ? 
"  No,  no — to  be  a  carman's,  wife 

Will  ne'er  suit  Alice  Payne; 
I'd  better  far  a  lone  woman 

For  evermore  remain, 
Than  have  it  said,  while  in  my  youth. 
My  life  is  on  the  wain !"  , 

"  Oh,  Alice  Payne  !  Oh,  Alice  Payne  I 

Why  won't  you  meet  with  me  ?" 
Then  up  she  curl'd  her  nose,  and  said, 

"  Go  axe  your  azletree ; 
I  tell  you,  Joe,  this— once  for  all — 

Mjjoe  you  shall  not  be." 
She  spoke  the  fatal  "  no,"  which  put 

A  spoke  into  his  wheel — 
And  stopp'd  his  happiness,  as  though 

She'd  cry  too  /  to  his  weal : — 

These  women  ever  steal  our  hearts, 

And  then  their  own  they  steel. 

*  New  Monthly  Magazine. 


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So  round  his  melancholy  neck 
Poor  Joe  his  drag-chain  tied, 
And  hook'd  it  on  a  hook—"  Oh  I  what 

A  weight  is  life !"  he  cried  ; 
Then  off  he  cast  himself— and  thus 

The  cast-off  carman  died  ! 
Howbeit,  as  his  son  was  set, 
(Poor  Joe  I)  at  set  of  sun, 
They  laid  him  in  his  lowly  grave, 

And  gravely  that  was  done  ; 
And  she  stood  by,  and  laugh'd  outright — 

How  wrong — the  guilty  one ! 
But  the  day  of  retribution  comes 

Alike  to  prince  and  hind, 
As  surely  as  the  summer's  sun 
Must  yield  to  wintry  wind  : 
Alas !  she  did  not  mind  his  peace — 

So  she'd  no  peace  of  mind. 
For  when  she  sought  her  bed  of  rest, 

Her  rest  was  all  on  thorns ; 
And  there  another  lover  stood, 

Who  wore  a  pair  of  horns : 
His  little  tiny  feet  were  cleft, 
And  cloven,  like  a  fawn's ; 
His  face  and  garb  were  dark  and  black, 

As  daylight  to  the  blind  ; 
And  a  something  undefinable 

Around  his  skirt  was  twin'd — 
As  if  he  wore,  like  other  pigs, 

His  pigtail  out  behind. 
His  arms,  though  less  than  other  men's, 

By  no  means  harm-less  were : 
Dark  elfin  locks  en  lock'd  his  brow— 

You  might  not  call  them  hair ; 
And,  oh !  it  was  a  gas-tly  sight 

To  see  his  eye-balls  glare. 
And  ever,  as  the  midnight  bell 

Twelve  awful  strokes  had  toll'd, 
That  dark  man  by  her  bedside  stood. 

Whilst  all  her  blood  run  cold  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  he  cried, 

"  I  could  a  tail  unfold  !" 
And  so  her  strength  of  heart  grew  less, 

For  heart-less  she  had  been ; 
And  on  her  pallid  cheek  a  small 

Red  hectic  spot  was  seen  : 
You  could  not  say  her  life  was  spent 

Without  a  spot,  I  wean. 
And  they  who  mark'd  that  crimson  light 

Well  knew  the  treach'rous  bloom — 
A  light  that  shines,  alas  !  alas  ! 

To  light  us  to  our  tomb : 
They  said  'twas  like  thy  cross,  St.  Paul's, 

The  signal  of  her  doom. 
And  so  it  prov'd — she  lost  her  health, 

When  breath  she  needed  most — 
Just  as  the  winning  horse  gets  blown 

Close  by  the  winning-post . 
The  ghost,  he  gave  np  plaguing  her — 
So  she  gave  np  the  ghost 

H.  L. 


MODERN  IMPROVEMENTS. 

In  the  annals  of  the  world  there  have 
never  been  such  rapid  changes  and  such 
vast  improvements  as  have  occurred  in 
this  metropolis  during  the  last  seven  years. 
We  have  no  occasion  now  to  refer  to 
Pennant  to  produce  exclamations  of  sur- 
prise at  the  wonderful  changes  in  London ; 
our  own  recollections  are  sufficient.  Oxford- 
street  seems  half  a  mile  nearer  to  Charing 
Cross  than  in  the  days  of  our  youth.  Swal- 
low-street, with  all  the  dirty  courts  in  its 
vicinity,  have  been  swallowed  up,  and  re- 
placed by  one  of  the  most  magnificent 
streets  in  Europe ;  a  street,  which  may  vie 
with  the  Calle  d'Alcala  in  Madrid,  with  the 
Quartier  du  Chapeau  Rouge  at  Bourdeaux. 
or  the  Place  de  Louis  Quinze  at  Paris.  We 
must,  for  the  present,  overlook  the  defects 
of  the  architectural  detail  of  this  street,  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  great  and  general 
improvement  which  its  construction  has 
produced  in  the  metropolis. 

Other  streets  are  proposed  by  the  same 
active  genius  under  which  Regent-street 
has  been  accomplished ;  the  vile  houses 
which  surrounded  and  hid  the  finest  portico 
in  London — that  of  St.  Martin's  church — 
are  already  taken  down  ;  a  square  is  to  be 
formed  round  this  building,  with  two  large 
openings  into  the  Strand,  and  plans  are 
already  in  agitation  to  lay  open  other 
churches  in  the  same  manner.  Even  the 
economical  citizens  have  given  us  a  peep  at 
St.  Bride's — being  ashamed  again  to  hide 
beauties  which  accident  had  given  them  an 
opportunity  of  displaying  to  greater  advan- 
tage. One  street  is  projected  from  Charing 
Cross  to  the  British  Museum,  terminating 
in  a  square,  of  which  the  church  in  H&rt- 
street  is  to  form  the  centre ;  another  is  in- 
tended to  lead  to  the  same  point  from 
Waterloo-bridge,  by  which  this  structure, 
which  is  at  present  almost  useless,  will  be- 
come the  great  connecting  thoroughfare 
between  the  north  and  south  sides  of  the 
Thames  :  this  street  is,  indeed,  a  desidera- 
tum to  the  proprietors  of  the  bridge,  as  well 
as  tu  the  public  at  large.  Carlton -house  i? 
already  being  taken  down — by  which  means 
Regent-street  will  terminate  at  the  south 
end,  with  a  view  of  St.  James's  Park,  in 
the  same  manner  as  it  does  at  the  north 
end,  by  an  opening  into  the  Regent's  Park. 
Such  is  the  general  outline  of  the  late 
and  the  projected  improvements  in  the 
heart  of  the  metropolis ;  but  they  have  not 
stopped  hero.  The  king  has  been  decora- 


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ting  Hyde  Park  with  lodges,  designed  by 
Mr.  Decimus  Burton,  which  are  really  gems 
in  architecture,  and  stand  unrivalled  for 
proportion,  chasteness.  and  simplicity, 
amidst  the  architectural  productions  of  the 
age. 

Squares  are  already  covering  the  exten- 
sive property  of  lord  Grosvenor  in  the  fields 
of  Chelsea  and  Pimlico ;  and  crescents  and 
colonnades  are  planned,  by  the  architect  to 
Jthe  bishop  of  London,  on  the  ground  be- 
longing to  the  diocese  at  Bayswater. 

But  all  suburban  improvements  sink  into 
insignificance,  when  compared  with  what 
has  been  projected  and  attained  within  the 
last  seven  years  in  the  Regent's  Park.  This 
new  city  of  palaces  has  appeared  to  have 
started  into  existence  like  the  event  of  a 
fairy  tale.  Every  week  showed  traces  of 
an  Aladdin  hand  in  its  progress,  till,  to  our 
astonishment,  we  ride  through  streets, 
squares,  crescents,  and  terraces,  where  we 
the  other  day  saw  nothing  but  pasture  land 
and  Lord's-cricket-ground ; — a  barn  is  re- 
placed by  a  palace — and  buildings  are  con- 
structed, one  or  two  of  which  may  vie  with 
the  proudest  efforts  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

The  projector,  with  true  taste,  has  called 
the  beauties  of  landscape  to  the  aid  of 
architectural  embellishment ;  and  we  ac- 
cordingly find  groves,  and  lawns,  and 
streams  intersecting  the  numerous  ranges 
of  terraces  and  villas ;  while  nature,  as 
though  pleased  at  the  efforts  of  art,  seems 
to  have  exerted  herself  with  extraordinary 
vigour  to  emulate  and  second  the  efforts  of 
the  artist. 

In  so  many  buildings,  and  amidst  so 
much  variety,  there  must,  consequently,  be 
many  different  degrees  of  architectural  ex- 
cellence, and  many  defects  in  architectural 
composition ;  but,  taken  as  a  whole,  and 
the  short  time  occupied  in  its  accomplish- 
ment, the  Regent's  Park  may  be  considered 
as  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  creations 
of  architecture  that  has  ever  been  witnessed. 
It  is  the  only  speculation  of  the  sort  where 
elegance  seems  to  have  been  considered 
equally  with  profit  in  the  disposition  of  the 
ground.  The  buildings  are  not  crowded 
together  with  an  avaricious  determination 
to  create  as  much  frontage  as  possible ;  and 
we  cannot  bestow  too  much  praise  on  the 
liberality  with  which  the  projector  has  given 
up  so  much  space  to  the  squares,  roads, 
and  plantations,  by  which  he  has  certainly 
relinquished  many  sources  of  profit  for  the 
9leasure  and  convenience  of  the  publio. 

It  is  in  the  contemplation  of  these  addi- 
tions and  improvements  to  our  metropolis, 
Jhat  we  doubly  feel  the  blessings  and  effects 


of  that  peace  which  has  enabled  the  govern- 
ment, as  well  as  private  individuals,  to  at- 
tempt to  make  London  worthy  of  the  cha- 
racter it  bears  in  the  scale  of  cities ;  and 
we  are  happy  now  to  feel  proud  of  the 
architectural  beauty,  as  we  always  have  of 
the  commercial  influence,  of  our  metro- 
polis.* 


THE  SPELLS  OF  HOME. 

There  blend  the  ties  that  strengthen 

Our  hearts  in  hours  of  grief. 
The  silver  links  that  lengthen 

Joys  visits  when  most  brief ! 
Then,  dost  thou  sigh  for  pleasure  ? 

O  I  do  not  widely  roam  I 
But  seek  that  hidden  treasure 

At  home,  dear  home  I 

BERNARD  BARTON. 


By  the  soft  green  light  in  the  woody  glade, 

On  the  banks  of  moss  where  thy  childhood  play'd ; 

By  the  waving  tree  thro'  which  thine  eye 

First  look'd  in  love  to  the  summer  sky  ; 

By  the  dewy  gleam,  by  the  very  breath 

Of  the  primrose- tufts  in  the  grass  beneath, 

Upon  thy  heart  there  is  laid  a  spell — 

Holy  and  precious— oh !  guard  it  well  I 

By  the  sleepy  ripple  of  the  stream, 
Which  hath  lull'd  thee  into  many  a  dream  ; 
By  the  shiver  of  the  ivy-leaves, 
To  the  wind  of  morn  at  thy  casement-eaves ; 
By  the  bees'  deep  murmur  in  the  limes, 
By  the  music  of  the  Sabbath-chimes ; 
By  every  sound  of  thy  native  shade, 
Stronger  and  dearer  the  spell  is  made. 

By  the  gathering  round  the  winter  hearth, 

When  twilight  call'd  unto  household  mirth  , 

By  the  fairy  tale  or  the  legend  old 

In  that  ring  of  happy  faces  told ; 

By  the  quiet  hours  when  hearts  unite 

In  the  parting  prayer,  and  the  kind  "  good-night  ;** 

By  the  smiling  eye  and  the  loving  tone, 

Over  thy  life  has  the  spell  been  thrown. , 

And  bless  that  gift!— it  hath  gentle  might, 
A  guardian  power  and  a  guiding  light! 
It  hath  led  the  freeman  forth  to  stand 
Ih  the  mountain-battles  of  his  land  ; 
It  hath  brought  the  wanderer  o'er  the  seas, 
To  die  on  the  hills  of  his  own  fresh  breeze ; 
And  back  to  the  gates  of  his  father's  hall. 
It  hath  won  the  weeping  prodigal. 

Yes!  when  thy  heart  in  its  pride  would  stray, 
From  the  loves  of  its  guileless  youth  away  ; 
When  the  sullying  breath  of  the  world  would  come. 
O'er  the  flowers  it  brought  from  its  childhood's  home; 

*  Monthly  Magazine. 


217 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


Think  thou  again  of  the  woody  glade, 

And  the  so«nd  by  the  rustling  ivy  made ; 

Think  of  the  tree  at  thy  parent's  door, 

And  the  kindly  spell  shall  have  power  once  more  1 

F.  H. 

Monthly  Magazine. 


BOOKS. 

'Twere  well  with  most,  if  books,  that  could  engage 
Their  childhood,  pleased  them  at  a  riper  age  ; 
The  man  approving  what  had  charmed  the  boy, 
Would  die  at  last  in  comfort,  peace,  and  joy ; 
And  not  with  curses  on  his  art,  who  stole 
The  gem  of  truth  from  his  unguarded  soul. 

COWPEB. 

If  there  be  one  word  in  our  language, 
beyond  all  others  teeming  with  delightful 
associations,  Books  is  that  word.  At  that 
magic  name  what  vivid  retrospections  of 
by-gone  times,  what  summer  days  of  un- 
alloyed happiness  "  when  life  was  new," 
rush  on  the  memory  !  even  now  the  spell 
retains  its  power  to  charm  :  the  beloved  of 
my  youth  is  the  solace  of  my  declining 
years  :  such  is  the  enduring  nature  of  an 
early  attachment  to  literature. 

The  first  book  that  inspired  me  with  a 
taste  for  reading,  was  Banyan's  Pilgrim's 
Progress  ;  never  shall  I  forget  the  intense 
emotion  with  which  I  perused  this  pious 
and  interesting  fiction  :  the  picturesque 
descriptions  and  quaint  moralities  blended 
with  this  fine  allegory,  heightened  the 
enchantment,  which  to  a  youthful  and 
fervid  imagination,  "  unsated  yet  with 
garbage,"  was  complete.  From  hence- 
forward my  bias  was  determined;  the 
passion  grew  with  my  growth,  and  strength- 
ened with  my  strength  ;  and  I  devoured  all 
the  books  that  fell  in  my  way,  as  if  "  ap- 
petite increased  by  what  it  fed  on."  My 
next  step  was, — I  commenced  collector. 
Smile,  if  you  will,  reader,  but  admire  the 
benevolence  of  creative  wisdom,  by  which 
the  means  of  happiness  are  so  nicely  ad- 
justed to  the  capacity  for  enjoyment :  for, 
blender,  as  in  those  days  were  my  finances, 
I  much  doubt  if  the  noble  possessor  of  the 
unique  edition  of  BOCCACCIO,  marched  off 
with  his  envied  prize  at  the  cost  of  two 
thousand  four  hundred  pounds,  more  tri- 
umphantly, than  I  did  with  my  sixpenny 
pamphlet,  or  dog's  eared  volume,  destined 
to  form  the  nucleus  of  my  future  library. 

The  moral  advantages  arising  out  of  a 
love  of  books  are  so  obvious,  that  to  eti- 
large  upon  such  a  topic  might  be  deemed 
a  gratuitous  parade  of  truisms ;  I  shall 
therefore  proceed  to  offer  a  few  observa- 


tions, as  to  the  best  modes  of  deriving  both 
pleasure  and  improvement  from  the  culti- 
vation of  this  most  fascinating  and  intel- 
lectual of  all  pursuits.  Lord  Bacon  says, 
with  his  usual  discrimination,  "  Some 
books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swal- 
lowed, and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and 
digested ;"  this  short  sentence  comprises 
the  whole  practical  wisdom  of  the  subject, 
and  in  like  manner  by  an  extension  of  the 
principle,  the  choice  of  a  library  must  be 
regulated.  "  Few  books,  well  selected,  are 
best,"  is  a  maxim  useful  to  all,  but  more 
especially  to  young  collectors :  for  let  it 
be  remembered,  that  economy  in  our  plea- 
sures invariably  tends  to  enlarge  the  sphere 
of  our  enjoyments.  Fuller  remarks,  "  that 
it  is  a  vanity  to  persuade  the  world  one 
hath  much  learning  by  getting  a  great 
library ;"  and  the  supposition  is  equally 
erroneous,  that  a  large  collection  neces- 
sarily implies  a  good  one.  The  truth  is, 
were  we  to  discard  all  the  works  of  a  mere 
temporary  interest,  and  of  solemn  trifling, 
that  incumber  the  fields  of  literature,  the 
magnitude  of  numerous  vast  libraries  would 
suddenly  shrink  into  most  diminutive 
dimensions,  for  the  number  of  good  original 
authors  is  comparatively  few  ;  study  there- 
fore •  quality  rather  than  quantity  in  the 
selection  of  your  books.  As  regards  the 
luxuries  of  the  library,  keep  a  rigid  watch 
upon  your  inclinations  ;  for  though  it  must 
not  be  denied  that  there  is  a  rational  plea- 
sure in  seeing  a  favourite  author  elegantly 
attired,  nothing  is  more  ridiculous  than 
this  taste  pushed  to  the  extreme  ;  for  then 
this  refined  pursuit  degenerates  into  a  mere 
hobbyhorse,  and  once  fairly  mounted, 
good-by  to  prudence  and  common  sense  ! 
The  Bibliomaniac  is  thus  pleasantly  sati- 
rized by  an  old  poet  in  the  "  Shyp  of 
Fooles/ 

Styll  am  I  besy  6el  assembly i»ge, 
For  to  have  plenty  >t  is  a  pleasaunt  thynga 
In  my  conceit,  and  to  have  them  ay  in  hand, 
But  what  they  mene  do  I  not  understands  I 

When  we  survey  our  well-furnished  book- 
shelves, the  first  thought  that  suggests 
itself,  is  the  immortality  of  intellect.  Here 
repose  the  living  monuments  of  those 
master  spirits  destined  to  sway  the  empire 
of  mind  ;  the  historian,  the  philosopher, 
and  the  poet,  "  of  imagination  all  com- 
pact !"  and  while  the  deeds  of  mighty  con- 
querors hurry  down  the  stream  of  oblivion, 
the  works  of  these  men  survive  to  after- 
ages  ;  are  enshrined  in  the  memories  of  a 
grateful  posterity,  and  finally  stamp  upon 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


220 


national  character  thn  permanent  impress 
of  their  geiiius. 

Happy  we,  who  are  early  taught  to 
cherish  the  society  of  these  silent  friends, 
ever  ready  to  amuse  without  importunity, 
and  instruct  without  the  austerity  of  reproof. 
Let  us  rest  assured  that  it  is  "  mind  that 
makes  the  body  rich,"  and  that  in  the  cul- 
tivation of  our  intellect  we  secure  an  in- 
exhaustible store  of  present  gratification, 
and  a  source  of  pleasurable  recollections 
which  will  never  fail  to  cheer  the  evening 
of  life,  J.  H. 


ETIQUETTE. 

Philosophy  may  rave  as  it  will,  "  little 
things  are  great  to  little  men,"  and  the 
less  the  man,  the  greater  is  the  object. 
A  king  at  arms  is,  in  his  own  estimation, 
the  greatest  king  in  Europe,  and  a  German 
baron  is  not  more  punctilious  than  a  master 
of  the  ceremonies.  The  first  desire  with  all 
men  is  power,  the  next  is  the  semblance  of 
power ;  and  it  is  perhaps  a  happy  dispen- 
sation that  those  who  are  cut  off  from  the 
substantial  rights  of  the  citizen,  should  find 
a  compensation  in  the  "  decorations  "  of 
the  slave ;  as  in  all  other  moral  cases  the 
vices  of  the  individual  are  repressed  by 
those  of  the  rest  of  the  community.  The 
pride  of  Diogenes  trampled  on  the  pride 
of  Plato ;  and  the  vanity  of  the  excluded 
may  be  trusted  for  keeping  within  bounds 
the  vanity  of  the  preeminent  and  the  pri- 
vileged. The  great  enemy,  however,  of 
etiquette  is  civilisation,  which  is  incessantly 
at  work,  simplifying  society.  Knowledge, 
by  opening  our  eyes  to  the  substances  of 
things,  defends  us  from  the  juggle  of  forms ; 
and  Napoleon,  when  he  called  a  throne  a 
mere  chair,  with  gilt  nails  driven  into  it, 
epitomised  one  of  the  most  striking  results 
of  the  revolutionary  contest.  Strange  that 
he  should  have  overlooked  or  disregarded 
the  fact  in  the  erection  of  his  own  institu- 
tions !  Ceremonial  is  a  true  paper  cur- 
rency, and  passes  only  as  far  as  it  will  be 
taken.  The  representative  of  a  thousand 
pounds,  unbacked  by  credit,  is  a  worthless 
rag  of  paper,  and  the  highest  decoration 
which  the  king  can  confer,  if  repudiated  by 
opinion,  is  but  a  piece  of  blue  riband. 
Here  indeed  the  sublime  touches  the  ridi- 
culous, for  who  shall  draw  the  line  of  de- 
marcation between  my  lord  Grizzle  and 
the  gold  stick  ?  between  Mr.  Dymock,  in 
Westminster-hall,  and  his  representative 
"  on  a  real  horse  "  at  Covent-garden  ? — 
Every  day  the  intercourse  of  society  is  be- 
coming more  and  more  easy,  and  a  man  of 


fashion  is  as  little  likely  to  be  ceremonious 
in  trifles,  as  to  appear  in  the  costume  of 
sir  Charles  Grandison,  or  to  take  up  the 
quarrels  of  lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury.* 

INDICATIONS. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  FROST. 

For  the  Table  Book. 
I  know  that  the  weather's  severe,  by  the  noses 

That  run  between  eyes  smartly  lash'd  by  the  fair ; 
By  the  coxcombs  that  muff-led  are  smiling  at  roses 

Got  into  the  cheeks,  and  got  out  of  the  air. 
By  the  skates,  (slipp'ry  fish)  for  the  Serpentine's  Fleet 

By  the  rise  of  the  coal ;  by  the  shot-birds  that  fall  • 
By  the  chilly  old  people  that  creep  to  the  heat ; 

And  the  ivjr-green  branches  that  creep  to  the  wall, 
By  the  chorus  of  boys  sliding  over  the  river, 

The  grumbles  of  men  sliding  over  the  flags  ; 
The  beggars,  poor  wretches  I  half  naked,  that  shiver  t 

The  sportsmen,  poor  horsemen  !  turn'd  out  on  their 
nags! 

By  the  snow  standing  over  the  plant  and  the  fountain ; 

The  chilbain-tribes,  whose  understanding  is  weak ; 
The  wild-ducks  of  the  valley,  the  drift  of  the  mountain, 

Aad,  like  Niche1,  street- plugs  all  tears    from    the 

Creek: 
And  I  know,  by  the  icelets  from  nature's  own  shops, 

By  the  fagots  just  cut,  and  the  cutting  wind's  tone, 
That  the  weathe-/ will  freeze  half  the  world  if  it  stops. 

If  it  goes,  it  will  thaw  t'other  half  to  the  bone. 
Jan  27.  *,  *,  P. 


ADOPTION. 

There  is  a  singular  system  in  France 
relative  to  the  adoption  cf  children.  A 
family  who  has  none,  adopts  as  their  own 
a  fine  child  belonging  to  a  friend,  or  more 
generally  to  some  poor  person,  (for  the  laws 
of  population  in  the  poor  differ  from  those 
in  the  rich ;)  the  adoption  is  regularly  enre- 
gistered  by  the  civil  authorities,  and  the 
child  becomes  heir-at-law  to  the  property 
of  its  new  parents,  an  I  cannot  be  disin- 
herited by  any  subsequent  caprice  of  the 
parties ;  they  are  bound  to  support  it  suit- 
ably to  their  rank,  and  do  every  thing  due 
to  their  offspring.-f 


A  RO/AL  SIMILE. 

"  Queen  Elizabeth  was  wont  to  say, 
upon  the  commission  of  sales,  that  the 
commissioners  used  her  like  strauoberry- 
wives,  that  laid  two  or  three  great  straw- 
berries at  the  mouth  of  their  pottle,  and  all 
the  rest  were  little  ones ;  so  they  made  her 
two  or  three  great  prices  of  the  first  par- 
ticulars, but  fell  straightways.''J 


*  New  Monthly  Magazine. 
\  Apophthegms  Anticj. 


t  Ibid. 


221 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


222 


£anna&. 


Sightless,  and  gently  led  her  xinaeen  round, 
She  daily  creeps,  and  draws  a  soothing  sound 
Of  Psalmody,  from  out  her  viol'  strings, 
To  company  some  plaintive  words  she  sings. 


This  young  woman  sojourns  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  ancient  scene  of  the 

Pretty  Bessee  "  and  her  old  father,  the 
"  Blind  Beggar  of  Bethnal-green  " — 

"  His  marks  and  his  tokens  were  known  full  well, 
He  always  was  led  with  a  dog  and  a  bell." 

Her  name  is  Hannah  Brentford.  She  is 
an  inhabitant  of  Bunhill-row,  twenty-four 
years  old,  and  has  been  blind  from  the  time 
she  had  the  small-pox,  two  and  twenty 
years  ago.  She  sings  hymns,  and  accom- 
panies herself  on  the  violin.  Her  manner 
is  to  "  give  out  "  two  lines  of  words,  and 
chant  them  to  "  a  quiet  tune  :"  and  then 

VOL.  I.— 8. 


she  gives  out  another  two  lines ;  and  so  she 
proceeds  till  the  composition  is  finished. 
Her  voice,  and  the  imitative  strains  of  her 
instrument,  are  one  chord  of  'plaining 
sound,  beautifully  touching.  She  supports 
herself,  and  an  aged  mother,  on  the  alms  of 
passengers  in  the  streets  of  Finsbury,  who 
"  please  to  bestow  their  charity  on  the 
blind  "—"  the  poor  blind."  They  who  are 
not  pierced  by  her  "  sightless  eye-balls 
have  no  sight :  they  who  are  unmoved  b* 
her  virginal  melody  have  «*  ears,  and  they 
hear  not."  Her  eyes  are  of  agate — she  is 
one  of  the  "  poor  stone  blind  "— 

most  ninsical,  most  melJwciolT." 


223 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


224 


No.V. 

[From  "Arden  of  Feversham  his  true  and 
lamentable  Tragedy,"  Author  unknown. 
1592.] 

Alice  Arden  with  Mosbie  her  Paramour 
conspire  the  murder  of  her  Husband. 

Mot.  How  now,  Alice,  what  sad  and  passionate  ? 
Make  me  partaker  of  thy  pensiveness ; 
Fire  divided  burns  with  lesser  force. 

Al.  But  I  will  dam  that  fire  in  my  breast, 
Till  by  the  force  thereof  my  part  consume. 
Ah  Mosbie  1 

Mos.  Such  deep  pathaires,  like  to  a  cannon's  burst, 
Discharged  against  a  ruinated  wall, 
Breaks  my  relenting  heart  in  thousand  pieces. 
Ungentle  Alice,  thy  sorrow  is  my  sore  ; 
Thou  know'st  it  will,  and  'tis  thy  policy 
To  forge  distressful  looks,  to  wound  a  breast 
Where  lies  a  heart  which  dies  when  thou  art  sad. 
It  is  not  Love  that  loves  to  anger  Love. 

Al.  It  is  not  Love  that  loves  to  murther  Love. 

Mas.  How  mean  you  that  ? 

Al.  Thou  know'st  how  dearly  Arden  loved  me. 

Afo*.  And  then 

Al.  And  then — conceal  the  rest,  for  'tis  too  bad, 
Lest  that  my  words  be  carried  to  the  wind, 
And  pnblish'd  in  the  world  to  both  our  shames. 
I  pray  thee,  Mosbie,  let  our  springtime  wither ; 
Our  harvest  else  will  yield  but  loathsome  weeds. 
Forget,  I  pray  thee,  what  has  past  betwixt  us ; 
For  now  I  blush  and  tremble  at  the  thoughts. 

Mot.  What,  are  you  changed  ? 

Al.  Aye,  to  my  former  happy  life  again ; 
From  title  of  an  odious  strumpet's  name 
To  honest  Arden's  wife,  not  Arden's  honest  wife — 
Ha  Mosbie  1  'tis  thou  hast  rifled  me  of  that, 
And  made  me  slanderous  to  all  my  kin. 
Even  in  my  forehead  is  thy  name  engraven, 
A  mean  Artificer,  that  low-born  name  I 
I  was  bewitcht ;  woe-worth  the  hapless  hour 
And  all  the  causes  that  enchanted  me. 

Mos.  Nay,  if  thou  ban,  let  me  breathe  curses  forth ; 
And  if  you  stand  so  nicely  at  your  fame, 
Let  me  repent  the  credit  I  have  lost. 
I  have  neglected  matters  of  import, 
That  would  have  'stated  me  above  thy  state ; 
For-slow'd  advantages,  and  spurn'd  at  time ; 
Aye,  Fortune's  right  hand  Mosbie  hath  forsook. 
To  take  a  wanton  giglot  by  the  left. 
I  left  the  marriage  of  an  honest  maid, 
Whose  dowry  would  have  weigh'd  down  all  thy  wealth; 
Whose  beauty  and  demeanour  far  exceeded  thee. 
This  certain  good  I  lost  for  changing  bad, 
Ard  wrapt  my  credit  in  thy  company. 
I  was  bewitcht ;  that  is  no  theme  of  thine  ; 
And  thou  unhallaw'd  hast  enchanted  me. 
Bnt  I  will  break  thy  spells  and  exorcisms, 
And  put  another  sight  upon  these  eyes, 
That  shew'd  my  hjart  a  raven  for  a  dove. 


Thou  art  not  fair ;  I  view'd  thee  not  till  now  : 
Thou  art  not  kind ;  till  now  I  knew  thee  not : 
And  now  the  rain  hath  beaten  off  thy  gilt, 
Thy  worthless  copper  shews  thee  counterfeit. 
It  grieves  me  not  to  see  how  foul  thou  art, 
Bat  mads  me  that  ever  I  thought  thee  fair. 
Go,  get  thee  gone,  a  copesmate  for  thy  hinds  ; 
I  am  too  good  to  be  thy  favourite. 

Al.  Aye,  now  I  see,  and  too  soon  find  it  true, 
Which  often  hath  been  told  me  by  my  friends, 
That  Mosbie  loves  me  not  but  for  my  wealth ; 
Which  too  incredulous  I  ne'er  believed. 
Nay,  hear  me  speak,  Mosbie,  a  word  or  two  ; 
I'll  bite  my  tongue  if  I  speak  bitterly, 
look  on  me,  Mosbie,  or  else  I'll  kill  myself. 
Nothing  shall  hide  me  from  thy  stormy  look ; 
If  thou  cry  War,  there  is  no  Peace  for  me. 
I  will  do  penance  for  offending  thee  ; 
And  burn  this  Prayer  Book,  which  I  here  use. 
The  Holy  Word  that  has  converted  me. 
S»e,  Mosbie,  I  will  tear  away  the  leaves, 
And  all  the  leaves  ;  and  in  this  golden  Cover 
Shall  thy  sweet  phrases  and  thy  letters  dwell, 
And  thereon  will  I  chiefly  meditate, 
And  hold  no  other  sect  but  such  devotion. 
Wilt  thou  not  look  ?  is  all  thy  Love  o'erwhelm'd  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  ?  what  malice  stops  thy  ears  ? 
Why  speakst  thou  not  ?  what  silence  ties  thy  tongn*  * 
Thou  hast  been  sighted  as  the  Eagle  is, 
And  heard  as  quickly  as  the  fearful  Hare 
And  spoke  as  smoothly  as  an  Orator, 
When  I  have  bid  thee  hear,  or  see,  or  speak : 
And  art  thou  sensible  in  none  of  these  ? 
Weigh  all  thy  good  turns  with  this  little  fault. 
And  I  deserve  not  Mosbie's  muddy  looks. 
A  fence  of  trouble  is  not  thicken'd  still ; 
Be  clear  again ;  I'll  ne'er  more  trouble  thee. 

Mos.  O  fie,  no  ;  I'm  a  base  artificer ; 
My  wings  are  feather'd  for  a  lowly  flight. 
Mosbie,  fie,  no ;  not  for  a  thousand  pound 
Make  love  to  you ;  why,  tis  unpardonable. 
We  Beggars  must  not  breathe,  where  Gentiles  are. 

Al.  Sweet  Mosbie  is  as  Gentle  as  a  King, 
And  I  too  blind  to  judge  him  otherwise. 
Flowers  sometimes  spring  in  fallow  lands : 
Weeds  in  gardens,  Roses  grow  on  thorns : 
So,  whatsoe'er  my  Mosbie's  father  was. 
Himself  is  valued  Gentle  by  his  worth. 

Mos.  Ah  how  you  women  can  insinuate, 
And  clear  a  trespass  with  your  sweet  set  tongue . 
I  will  forget  this  quarrel,  gentle  Alice, 
Provided  I'll  be  tempted  so  no  more. 


Arden,  with  his  friend  Franklin,  travel- 
ling at  night  to  Arden's  house  at  Fever- 
sham,  where  he  is  lain  in  wait  for  b) 
Ruffians,  hired  by  Alice  and  Mosbie  t, 
murder  him ;  Franklin  is  interrupted  in 
stury  he  was  beginning  to  tell  by  the  wai, 
of  a  BAD  WIFE,  by  an  indisposition,  omi- 
nous of  the  impending  danger  of  his  friend 


225 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


226 


Ardcn.  Come,  Master  Franklin,  onwards  with  your 
tile. 

Frank.  I'll  assure  you,  Sir,  you  task  me  much. 
A  heavy  blood  is  gather'd  at  my  heart ; 
And  on  the  sudden  is  my  wind  so  short, 
As  hindereth  the  passage  of  my  speech. 
So  fierce  a  qualm  yet  ne'er  assailed  me. 

Arden.  Come,  Master  Franklin,  let  us  go  on  softly ; 
The  annoyance  of  the  dust,  or  else  some  meat 
You  ate  at  dinner  cannot  brook  with  you. 
I  have  been  often  so,  and  soon  amended. 

Frank.  Do  you  remember  where  my  tale  did  leave  ? 

Arden.  Aye,  where  the   Gentleman  did  check  his 
wife — 

Frank.  She  being  reprehended  for  the  fact. 
Witness  produced  that  took  her  with  the  fact, 
Her  glove  brought  in  which  there  she  left  behind, 
And  many  other  assured  arguments, 
Her  Husband  ask'd  her  whether  it  were  not  so — 

Arden.  Her  answer  then  ?  I  wonder  how  she  look'd, 
Having  forsworn  it  with  so  vehement  oaths, 
And  at  the  instant  ao  approved  upon  her. 

Frank.    First  did  she  cast  her  eyes  down  on  the 

earth, 

Watching  the  drops  that  fell  amain  from  thence ; 
Then  softly  draws  she  out  her  handkercher, 
And  modestly  she  wipes  her  tear-stain'd  face : 
Then  hemm'd  she  out  (to  clear  her  voice  it  should 

seem), 

And  with  a  majesty  address!  herself 
To  encounter  all  their  accusations — 
Pardon  me,  Master  Arden,  I  can  no  more ; 
This  fighting  at  my  heart  makes. short  my  wind. 

Arden.  Come,  we  are  almost  now  at  Raynum  Down ; 
Vour  pretty  tale  beguiles  the  weary  way, 
I  would  you  were  in  case  to  tell  it  ont. 

[  They  are  set  upon  by  the  Ruffians.] 


For  the  Table  Book. 

GOD  SAVE  THE  KING. 

JOHN  BULL. 

In  answer  to  an  inquiry  in  The  Times, 
respecting  the  author  of  "  God  save  the 
King,"  the  writers  of  several  letters  in  that 
journal,  during  the  present  month,  concur 
in  ascribing  the  air  of  the  "  national  an- 
them" to  Dr.  John  Bull.  This  opinion 
results  from  recent  researches,  by  the  curi- 
ous in  music,  which  have  been  published  in 
elaborate  forms. 

Dr.  John  Bull  was  a  celebrated  musi- 
cian, born  about  1563,  in  Somersetshire. 
His  master  in  music  was  William  Blithe- 
man,  organist  of  the  chapel  royal  to  queen 
Elizabeth,  in  which  capacity  he  was  much 
distinguished.  Bull,  on  the  death  of  his 
master  in  1591,  was  appointed  his  suc- 


cessor. In  1592  he  was  created  doctor  in 
the  university  of  Cambridge  ;  and  in  1596, 
at  the  recommendation  of  her  majesty,  he 
was  made  professor  of  music  to  Gresham 
college,  which  situation  he  resigned  it 
1607.  During  more  than  a  year  of  his 
professorship,  Mr.  Thomas  Bird,  son  of  the 
venerable  William  Bird,  exercised  the 
office  of  a  substitute  to  Dr.  Bull,  while  he 
travelled  on  the  continent  for  the  recovery 
of  his  health.  After  the  decease  of  queen 
Elizabeth,  Bull  was  appointed  chamber- 
musician  to  king  James.  In  1613,  Dr.  Bull 
finally  quitted  England,  and  entered  into 
the  service  of  the  archduke,  in  the  Nether- 
lands. He  afterwards  seems  to  have  set- 
tled at  Lubec,  from  which  place  many  of 
his  compositions,  in  the  list  published  by 
Dr.  Ward,  are  dated  ;  one  of  them  so  late 
as  1622,  the  supposed  year  of  his  decease. 
Dr.  Bull  has  been  censured  for  quitting  his 
establishment  in  England  ;  but  it  is  pro- 
bable that  the  increase  of  health  and  wealth 
was  the  cause  and  consequence  of  his  re- 
moval. He  seems  to  have  been  praised  at 
home  more  than  rewarded.  The  professor- 
ship of  Gresham  college  was  not  then  a 
sinecure.  His  attendance  on  the  chapel 
royal,  for  which  he  had  40J.  per  annum, 
and  on  the  prince  of  Wales,  at  a  similai 
salary,  though  honourable,  were  not  very 
lucrative  appointments  for  the  first  per- 
former in  the  world,  at  a  time  when  scho- 
lars were  not  so  profitable  as  at  present, 
and  there  was  no  public  performance  where 
this  most  wonderful  musician  could  display 
his  abilities.  A  list  of  more  than  two  hun- 
dred of  Dr.  Bull's  compositions,  vocal  and 
instrumental,  is  inserted  in  his  life,  the 
whole  of  which,  when  his  biography  was 
written  in  1740,  were  preserved  in  the 
collection  of  Dr.  Pepusch.  The  chief  part 
of  these  were  pieces  for  the  organ  and 
virginal.* 

Anthony  a  Wood  relates  the  following 
anecdote  of  this  distinguished  musician, 
when  he  was  abroad  for  the  recovery  of  his 
health  in  1601  :— 

"  Dr.  Bull  hearing  of  a  famous  musician 
belonging  to  a  certain  cathedral  at  St. 
Omer's,  he  applied  himself  as  a  novice  to 
him,  to  learn  something  of  his  faculty,  and 
to  see  and  admire  his  works.  This  musi- 
cian, after  some  discourse  had  passed  be- 
tween them,  conducted  Bull  to  a  vestry  or 
music-school  joining  to  the  cathedral,  and 
showed  to  him  a  lesson  or  song  of  forty  parts, 
and  then  made  a  vaunting  challenge  to  any 
person  in  the  world  to  add  one  more  part 

•  Dictionary  of  Musicians.    HawUini. 


227 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


223 


to  them,  supposing  it  to  be  so  complete 
and  full  that  it  was  impossible  for  any 
mortal  man  to  correct  or  add  to  it ;  Bull 
thereupon  desiring  the  use  of  pen,  ink,  and 
ruled  paper,  such  as  we  call  music  paper, 
prayed  the  musician  to  lock  him  up  in  the 
said  school  for  two  or  three  hours ;  which 
being  done,  not  without  great  disdain  by 
the  musician,  Bull  in  that  time,  or  less, 
added  forty  more  parts  to  the  said  lesson 
or  song.  The  musician  thereupon  being 
called  in,  he  viewed  it,  tried  it,  and  retried 
it;  at  length  he  burst  out  into  a  great 
ecstasy,  and  swore  by  the  great  God,  that  he 
that  added  those  forty  parts  must  either  be 
the  devil,  or  Dr.  Bull,  8cc.  Whereupon 
Bull  making  himself  known,  the  musician 
fell  down  and  adored  him.  Afterwards 
continuing  there  and  in  those  parts  for  a 
time,  he  became  so  much  admired,  that  he 
was  courted  to  accept  of  any  place  or  pre- 
ferment suitable  to  his  profession,  either 
within  the  dominions  of  the  emperor,  king 
of  France,  or  Spain ;  but  the  tidings  of 
these  transactions  coming  to  the  English 
court,  queen  Elizabeth  commanded  him 
home."  * 

Dr.  Burney  disregards  the  preceding 
account  as  incredible  ;  but  Wood  was  a 
most  accurate  writer :  and  Dr.  Bull,  be- 
sides being  a  great  master,  was  a  lover  of 
the  difficulties  in  his  science,  and  was 
therefore  likely  to  seek  them  with  delight, 
and  accomplish  them  in  a  time  surprisingly 
short  to  those  who  study  melody  rather 
than  intricacy  of  composition. 

It  is  related  that  in  the  reign  of  James  I. 
"July  the  16th,  1607,  his  majesty  and 
prince  Henry,  with  many  of  the  nobility, 
and  other  honourable  persons,  dined  at 
Merchant  Taylors'  hall,  it  being  the  elec- 
tion-day of  their  master  and  wardens ; 
when  the  company's  roll  being  offered  to 
his  majesty,  he  said  he  was  already  free  of 
another  company,  but  that  the  prince 
should  grace  them  with  the  acceptance  of 
his  freedom,  and  that  he  would  himself  see 
when  the  garland  was  put  on  his  head, 
which  was  done  accordingly.  During  their 
stay,  they  were  entertained  with  a  great 
variety  of  music,  both  voices  and  instru- 
ments, as  likewise  with  several  speeches. 
And,  while  the  king  sat  at  dinner,  Dr.  Bull, 
who  was  free  of  that  company  ,being  in  a  citti- 
zen's  gowne,  cappe,  and  hood,  played  most 
excellent  melodie  uppon  a  small  payre  of 
organs,  placed  there  for  that  purpose 
onely." 

From   the   only   works  of   Dr.   Bull   in 

•  Wood's  Fasti,  anno  1586. 


print,  some  lessons  in  the  "  Parthenia — 
the  first  music  that  was  ever  printed  for  the 
virginals,"  he  is  deemed  to  have  possessed 
a  power  of  execution  on  the  harpsichord 
far  beyond  what  is  generally  conceived  of 
the  masters  of  that  time.  As  to  his  lessons, 
they  were,  in  the  estimation  of  Dr.  Pepusch, 
not  only  for  the  harmony  and  contrivance, 
but  for  air  and  modulation,  so  excellent, 
that  he  scrupled  not  to  prefer  them  to  those 
of  Couperin,  Scarlatti,  and  others  of  the 
modern  composers  for  the  harpsichord. 

Dr.  Pepusch  had  in  his  collection  a  book 
of  lessons  very  richly  bound,  which  had 
once  been  queen  Elizabeth's ;  in  this  were 
contained  many  lessons  of  Bull,  so  very 
difficult,  that  hardly  any  master  of  the  doc- 
tor's time  was  able  to  play  them.  It  is 
well  known,  that  Dr.  Pepusch  married  the 
famous  opera  singer,  signora  Margarita  de 
L'Pine,  who  had  a  very  fine  hand  on  the 
harpsichord  :  as  soon  as  they  were  married, 
the  doctor  inspired  her  with  the  same  sen- 
timents of  Bull  as  he  himself  had  long 
entertained,  and  prevailed  on  her  to  prac- 
tise his  lessons ;  in  which  she  succeeded  so 
well,  as  to  excite  the  curiosity  of  numbers 
to  resort  to  his  house  at  the  corner  of  Bart- 
lett's-buildings,  in  Fetter-lane,  to  hear  her. 
There  are  no  remaining  evidences  of  her 
unwearied  application,  in  order  to  attain 
that  degree  of  excellence  which  it  is  known 
she  arrived  at ;  but  the  book  itself  is  yet  in 
being,  which  in  some  parts  of  it  is  so  dis- 
coloured by  continual  use,  as  to  distinguish 
with  the  utmost  degree  of  certainty  the 
very  lessons  with  which  she  was  most  de- 
lighted. One  of  them  took  up  twenty 
minutes  to  go  through  it.* 

Dr.  Burney  says,  that  Pepusch's  prefer- 
ence of  Bull's  compositions  to  those  of 
Couperin  and  Scarlatti,  rather  proves  that 
the  doctor's  taste  was  bad,  than  that  Bull's 
music  was  good ;  and  he  remarks,  in  re- 
ference to  some  of  them,  "  that  they  may 
be  heard  by  a  lover  of  music,  with  as  little 
emotion  as  the  clapper  of  a  mill,  or  the 
rumbling  of  a  post-chaise."  It  is  a  mis- 
fortune to  Dr.  Bull's  fame,  that  he  left  little 
evidence  of  his  great  powers,  except  the 
transcendantly  magnificent  air  of  "  God 
save  the  king." 

February,  1827. 

COMPANY  OF  MUSICIANS 
OF  THE  CITY  OF  LONDON. 

King  James  I.,  upon  what  beneficij 
principle  it  is  now  difficult  to  discover,  bj 

*  Hawkins. 


229 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


230 


letters-patent  incorporated  the  musicians  of 
the  city  of  London  into  a  company,  and 
they  still  continue  to  enjoy  privileges  in 
consequence  of  their  constituting  a  frater- 
nity and  corporation  ;  bearing  arms  azure, 
a  swan,  argent,  within  a  tressure  counter- 
flure,  or :  in  a  chief,  gules,  a  rose  between 
two  lions,  or :  and  for  their  crest  the  celes- 
tial sign  Lyra,  called  by  astronomers  the 
Orphean  Lyre.  Unluckily  for  the  bon- 
vivans  of  this  tuneful  tribe,  they  have  no 
hall  in  the  city  for  festive  delights  !  How- 
ever, on  days  of  greatest  gourmandiso,  the 
members  of  this  body  are  generally  too 
busily  employed  in  exhilarating  others, 
comfortably  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  good 
living  themselves.  And  here  historical  in- 
tegrity obliges  me  to  say,  that  this  company 
has  ever  been  held  in  derision  by  real  pro- 
fessors, who  have  regarded  it  as  an  institu- 
tion as  foreign  to  the  cultivation  and  pros- 
perity of  good  music,  as  the  train-bands  to 
the  art  of  war.  Indeed,  the  only  uses  that 
have  hitherto  been  made  of  this  charter 
seem  the  affording  to  aliens  an  easy  and 
cheap  expedient  of  acquiring  the  freedom 
of  the  city,  and  enabling  them  to  pursue 
some  more  profitable  and  respectable  trade 
than  that  of  fiddling ;  as  well  as  empower- 
ing the  company  to  keep  out  of  processions, 
and  city-feasts,  every  street  and  country- 
dance  player,  of  superior  abilities  to  those 
who  have  the  honour  of  being  styled  the 
"  Waits  of  the  corporation."  * 


plaintiveness  and  boldness  of  his  strains, 
rendered  the  prince  unable  to  restrain  the 
softer  emotions  of  his  soul.  He  even  suf- 
fered him  to  proceed  until,  overpowered 
with  harmony,  he  melted  into  tears  of  pity, 
and  relented  of  his  cruel  intention,  lie 
spared  the  prisoners  who  yet  remained 
alive,  and  gave  them  instant  liberty. 


EFFECTS  OF  MUSIC. 

Sultan  Amurath,  that  cruel  prince,  having 
laid  siege  to  Bagdad,  and  taken  it,  gave 
orders  for  putting  thirty  thousand  Persians 
to  death,  notwithstanding  they  had  sub- 
mitted, and  laid  down  their  arms.  Among 
the  number  of  these  unfortunate  victims 
was  a  musician.  He  besought  the  officer, 
who  had  the  command  to  see  the  sultan's 
orders  executed,  to  spare  him  but  for  a  mo- 
ment, while  he  might  be  permitted  to  speak 
to  the  emperor.  The  officer  indulged  him 
with  his  entreaty  ;  and,  being  brought  be- 
fore the  emperor,  he  was  permitted  to 
exhibit  a  specimen  of  his  art.  Like  the 
musician  in  Homer,  he  took  up  a  kind  of 
psaltry,  resembling  a  lyre,  with  six  strings 
on  each  side,  and  accompanied  it  with  his 
voice.  He  sung  the  taking  of  Bagdad,  and 
the  triumph  of  Amuiath.  The  pathetic 
tones  and  exulting  sounds  which  he  drew 
from  the  instrument,  joined  to  the  alternate 

•   Burney, 


THE  YORKSHIRE  GIPSY.* 

For  the  Table  Book. 

The  Gipsies  are  pretty  well  known  as 
streams  of  water,  which,  at  different  periods, 
are  observed  on  some  parts  of  the  Yorkshire 
Wolds.  They  appear  toward  the  latter  end 
of  winter,  or  early  in  spring ;  sometimes 
breaking  out  very  suddenly,  and,  after  run- 
ning a  few  miles,  again  disappearing.  That 
which  is  more  particularly  distinguished  by 
the  name  of  The  Gipsy,  has  its  origin  near 
the  Wold-cottage,  at  a  distance  of  about 
twelve  miles  W.  N.  W.  from  Bridlington. 
The  water  here  does  not  rise  in  a  body,  in 
one  particular  spot,  but  may  be  seen  oozing 
and  trickling  among  the  grass,  over  a  sur- 
face of  considerable  extent,  and  where  the 
ground  is  not  interrupted  by  the  least  ap- 
parent breakage ;  collecting  into  a  mass, 
it  passes  off  in  a  channel,  of  about  four 
fe6t  in  depth,  and  eight  or  ten  in  width, 
along  a  fertile  valley,  toward  the  sea,  which 
it  enters  through  the  harbour  at  Bridling- 
ton ;  having1  passed  the  villages  of  Wold 
Newton,  North  Burton,  Rudston,  and 
Boynton.  Its  uncertain  visits,  and  the 
amazing  quantity  of  water  sometimes  dis- 
charged in  a  single  season,  have  afforded 
subjects  of  curious  speculation.  One  wri- 
ter displays  a  considerable  degree  of  ability 
in  favour  of  a  connection  which  he  sup- 
poses to  exist  between  it  and  the  ebbing 
and  flowing  spring,  discovered  at  Bridline- 
ton  Quay  in  1811.  "The  appearance  of 
this  water,"  however,  to  use  the  words  of 
Mr.  Hinderwell,  the  historian  of  Scar- 
borough, "  is  certainly  influenced  by  the 
state  of  the  seasons,"  as  there  is  sometimes 
an  intermission  of  three  or  four  years.  Jt 
is  probably  occasioned  by  a  surcharge  of 
water  descending  from  the  high  lands  into 
the  vales,  by  subterraneous  passages,  and, 
finding  a  proper  place  of  emission,  breaks 
out  with  great  force. 

*  The  word  is  not  pronounced  the  same  as  gipsy,  a 
fortune-teller  ;  the  g,  in  this  case,  being  sounded  hard 
as  in  gimlet. 


231 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


232 


Aftei  a  secession  of  five  years,  the  Gipsy 
made  its  appearance  in  February,  1823;  a 
circumstance  which  some  people  had  sup- 
posed as  unlikely  to  occur,  owing  to  the 
alterations  effected  on  the  Carrs,  under  the 
Muston  and  Yedingham  drainage  act. 

We  are  told,  that  the  ancient  Britons 
exalted  their  rivers  and  streams  into  the 
offices  of  religion,  and  whenever  an  object 
had  been  thus  employed,  it  was  reverenced 
with  a  degree  of  sanctity  ever  afterwards  ; 
and  we  may  readily  suppose,  that  the  sud- 
den and  extraordinary  appearance  of  this 
stream,  after  an  interval  of  two  or  three 
successive  years,  would  awaken  their  curi- 
osity, and  excite  in  them  a  feeling  of  sacred 
astonishment.  From  the  Druids  may  pro- 
bably have  descended  a  custom,  formerly 
prevalent  among  the  young  people  at  North 
Burton,  but  now  discontinued:  it  was — 
"  going  to  meet  the  Gipsy,"  on  her  first 
approach.  Whether  or  not  this  meeting 
was  accompanied  by  any  particular  cere- 
mony, the  writer  of  this  paragraph  has  not 
been  able  to  ascertain. 

T.  C. 

Bridlington. 


WILTSHIRE  ABROAD  AND  AT 
HOME. 

To  the  Editor. 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  by  heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside, 
Where  brighter  suns  dispense  sereiier  light, 
And  milder  moons  emparadise  the  night. 

A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valour,  truth, 
rime-tutor'd  age,  and  love-exalted  yoath  ; 
The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores. 

Views  not  a  realm  so  beautiful  and  fair, 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  pnrer  air; 
In  every  clime  the  magnet  of  his  .vml, 
Touch'd  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pole. 

For  in  this  land  of  heaven's  peculiar  grace. 
The  heritage  of  Nature's  noblest  race, 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth,  supremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest ; 

Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride  ; 
While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  brother,  friend. 

Here  woman  reigns — the  mother,  daughter,  wif«. 
Strews  with  fresh  flowers  tte  narrow  way  of  life ; 
In  the  cle.ir  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye 
An  aug-'l  guard  of  loves,  and  graces  lie ; 
ArounO  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet, 
Aud  f.n-side  pleasures  gim!>ol  at  lier  feet. 


Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  be  found  ? 
Art  thou  a  man  ?  a  patriot  ?  look  around ; 
Ob,  thou  shall  find,  howe'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 
That  land  thy  country,  and  that  spot  thy  home. 


Mr.  Editor, — As  your  Table  Book  may 
be  considered  an  extensively  agreeable  and 
entertaining  continuation  of  your  Every- 
Day  Book,  allow  me  a  column,  wherein, 
without  wishing  to  draw  attention  too  fre- 
quently to  one  subject,  I  would  recur  again 
to  the  contributions  of  your  correspondent, 
in  vol.  ii.  page  1371,  of  the  Every-Day 
Book,  my  observations  at  page  1584,  and 
his  notices  at  page  1606.  Your  "  Old  Cor- 
respondent "  is,  I  presume,  a  native  of  this 
part  of  the  country.  He  tells  us,  page  1608, 
that  his  ancestors  came  from  the  Priory  ;  in 
another  place,  that  he  is  himself  an  anti- 
quarian ;  and,  if  I  am  not  much  mistaken 
in  the  signatures,  you  have  admitted  his 
poetical  effusions  in  some  of  your  num- 
bers. Assuming  these  to  be  facts,  he  will 
enter  into  the  feeling  conveyed  by  the  lines 
quoted  at  the  head  of  this  article,  and 
agree  with  me  in  this  observation,  that 
every  man  who  writes  of  the  spot,  or  the 
county  so  endeared,  should  be  anxious  that 
truth  and  fiction  should  not  be  so  blended 
together  as  to  mislead  us  (the  inhabitants) 
who  read  your  miscellany ;  and  that  we 
shall  esteem  it  the  more,  as  the  antiquities, 
the  productions,  and  the  peculiarities  of 
this  part  of  our  county  are  noticed  in  a 
proper  manner. 

As  your  correspondent  appears  to  have 
been  anxious  to  set  himself  right  with  re- 
gard to  the  inaccuracies  1  noticed  in  his 
account  of  Clack,  &c.,  I  will  point  out  that 
he  is  still  in  error  in  one  slight  particular. 
When  he  visits  this  county  again,  he  will 
find,  if  he  should  direct  his  footsteps  to- 
wards Malmsbury  and  its  venerable  abbey, 
(now  the  church,)  the  tradition  is,  that  the 
boys  of  a  school,  kept  in  a  room  that  once 
existed  over  the  antique  and  curious  en- 
trance to  the  abbey,  revolted  and  killed 
their  master.  Mr.  Moffatt,  in  his  history 
of  Malmsbury,  (ed.  1805,)  has  not  noticed 
this  tradition. 

Excuse  my  transcribing  from  that  work, 
the  subjoined  "  Sonnet  to  the  Avon,"  and 
Jet  me  express  a  hope  that  your  correspond- 
ent may  also  favour  us  with  some  effusions 
in  verse  upon  that  stream,  the  scene  of 
warlike  contests  when  the  boundary  of  the 
Saxon  kingdom,  or  upon  other  subjects 
connected  with  our  local  history. 

Upon  this  river,  meandering-  through  z 
fine  and  fertile  tract  of  country,  Mr.  Aloi- 


233 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


234 


fatt,  after  noticing  the  earlier  abbots  of 
Malmsbury,  adds,  "  The  ideas  contained  in 
the  following  lines  were  suggested  by  the 
perusal  of  the  history  of  the  foundation  of 
Malmsbury  abbey : 

"  Sonnet  to  the  Avon. 

"  Reclined  beside  the  willow  shaded  stream, 
On  which  the  breath  of  whispering  zephyr  plays, 
Let  me,  O  Avon,  in  untntor'd  lays 

Assert  thy  fairest,  purest,  right  to  fame. 

What  tho'  no  myrtle  bower  thy  banks  adorn, 
Nor  sportive  Naiads  wanton  in  thy  wares ; 
No  glittering  sands  of  gold,  or  coral  caves, 

Bedeck  the  channel  by  thy  waters  worn  : 

Yet  thou  canst  boast  of  honours  passing  these, 
For  when  fair  science  left  her  eastern  seat, 
Ere  Alfred  raised  her  sons  a  fair  retreat, 

Where  Isis'  laurels  tremble  in  the  breeze ; 
'Twas  there,  near  where  thy  curling  streamlet  flows. 
E'en  in  yon  dell,  the  Muses  found  repose." 

This  interesting  period  in  the  history  of 
the  venerable  abbey,  its  supposed  connec- 
tion with  Bradenstoke  Priory,  the  admired 
scenery  of  the  surrounding  country,  the 
events  of  past  ages  blended  into  the  exer- 
tions of  a  fertile  imagination,  and  the  many 
traditions  still  floating  in  the  minds  of  the 
inhabitants,  would  form  materials  deserving 
the  attention  of  a  writer  disposed  to  wield 
his  pen  in  that  department  of  literature, 
which  has  been  so  successfully  cultivated  in 
1  the  northern  and  other  parts  of  our  island. 

If  by  the  observation,  "  that  his  ances- 
tors came  from  the  Priory,"  your  corres- 
pondent means  Bradenstoke  Priory,  he 
will  allow  me  to  direct  his  attention  to  the 
fact  of  the  original  register  of  that  esta- 
blishment being  in  the  British  Museum.  I 
refer  him  to  the  "  Beauties  of  England  and 
Wales." 

As  your  correspondent  probably  resides 
in  London,  he  may  be  induced  to  obtain 
access  to  this  document,  in  which  I  con- 
clude he  would  have  no  difficulty;  and  if 
you,  Mr.  Editor,  could  favour  us  in  your 
publication  with  an  engraving  of  this 
Priory,  it  would  be  acceptable. 

I  appreciate  the  manner  in  which  your 
correspondent  noticed  rny  remarks,  and 
wish  him  success  in  his  literary  efforts, 
whether  relating  to  objects  in  this  vicinity, 
or  to  other  matters.  One  remark  only  I 
will  add, — that  I  think  he  should  avoid  the 
naming  of  respectable  individuals :  the 
mention  of  names  may  cause  unpleasant 
feelings  in  a  neighbourhood  like  this,  how- 
ever unintentional  on  his  part.  I  should 
have  considered  it  better  taste  in  an  anti- 
quarian to  have  named  the  person  in  pos- 


session cf  the  golden  image,  in  preference 
to  the  childish  incident  stated  to  have 
occurred  when  Bradenstoke  Priory  was 
occupied  by  a  former  respectable  inhabit- 
ant, Mrs.  Bridges. 

Your  correspondent  will  excuse  the  free- 
dom of  this  observation ;  his  ready  pen 
could  perhaps  relate  to  you  the  detail  of  a 
tragical  event,  said  by  tradition  to  have 
occurred  at  Dauntsey,  where  the  mansion 
of  the  late  earl  of  Peterborough  now  stands, 
and  "  other  tales  of  other  times." 


Lyneham,  Wilts, 
January  23,  1827. 


A  READER.* 


OLD  BIRMINGHAM  CONJURERS. 
BY  MR.  WILLIAM  HUTTON. 

No  head  is  a  vacuum.  Some,  like  a 
paltry  cottage,  are  ill  accommodated,  dark, 
and  circumscribed ;  others  are  capacious  as 
Westminster-hall.  Though  none  are  im- 
mense, yet  they  are  capable  of  immense 
furniture.  The  more  room  is  taken  up  by 
knowledge,  the  less  remains  for  credulity. 
The  more  a  man  is  acquainted  with  things, 
the  more  willing  to  "  give  up  the  ghost." 
Every  town  and  village,  within  my  know- 
ledge, has  been  pestered  with  spirits, 
which  appear  in  horrid  forms  to  the  ima- 
gination in  the  winter  night — but  the 
spirits  which  haunt  Birmingham,  are  those 
of  industry  and  luxury. 

If  we  examine  the  whole  parish,  we  can- 
not produce  one  old  "  witch ;"  but  we  have 
numbers  of  young,  who  exercise  a  powerful 
influence  over  us.  Should  the  ladies  accuse 
the  harsh  epithet,  they  will  please  to  con- 
sider, I  allow  them,  what  of  all  things  they 
most  wish  for,  power — therefore  the  balance 
is  in  my  favour. 

If  we  pass  through  the  planetary  worlds, 
we  shall  be  able  to  muster  two  conjurers, 
who  endeavoured  to  "  shine  with  the  stars." 
The  first,  John  Walton,  who  was  so  busy 
in  casting  the  nativity  of  others,  that  he 
forgot  his  own.  Conscious  of  an  applica- 
tion to  himself,  for  the  discovery  of  stolen 

*  I  am  somewhat  embarrassed  by  this  difference 
between  two  valued  correspondents,  and  I  hope  neither 
will  regard  me  in  an  ill  light,  if  I  venture  to  interpose, 
and  deprecate  controversy  beyond  an  extent  whicli  can 
interest  the  readers  of  the  Table  Book.  I  do  not  sajr 
that  it  has  passed  that  limit,  and  hitherto  all  has  been 
well;  perhaps,  however,  it  would  be  advisable  that 
"  A  Reader"  should  confide  to  me  his  name,  and  that 
he  and  my  "  Old  Correspondent,"  whom  I  know,  shouW 
allow  me  to  introduce  them  to  each  other.  I  think  the 
result  would  be  mutually  satisfactory. 

VV.  H. 


235 


THE  TABLE  BOOR. 


236 


goods,  he  employed  his  people  to  steal 
them.  And  though,  for  many  years  con- 
fined to  his  bed  by  infirmity,  he  could  con- 
jure away  the  property  of  others,  and,  for  a 
reward,  conjure  it  back  again. 

The  prevalence  of  this  evil,  induced  the 
legislature,  in  1725,  to  make  the  reception 
of  stolen  goods  capital.  The  first  sacrifice 
to  this  law  was  the  noted  Jonathan  Wild. 

The  officers  of  justice,  in  1 732,  pulled 
Walton  out  of  his  bed,  in  an  obscure  cottage, 
one  furlong  from  the  town,  now  Brickiln- 
lane,  carried  him  to  prison,  and  from  thence 
to  the  gallows — they  had  better  have  car- 
ried him  to  the  workhouse,  and  his  followers 
to  the  anvil. 

To  him  succeeded  Francis  Kimberley, 
the  only  reasoning  animal,  who  resided  at 
No.  60,  in  Dale-end,  from  his  early  youth 
to  extreme  age.  A  hermit  in  a  crowd ! 
The  windows  of  his  house  were  strangers 
to  light.  The  shutters  forgot  to  open  ;  the 
chimney  to  smoke.  His  cellar,  though 
amply  furnished,  never  knew  moisture. 

He  spent  threescore  years  in  filling  six 
rooms  with  such  trumpery  as  was  just  too 
good  to  be  thrown  away,  and  too  bad  to  be 
kept.  His  life  was  as  inoffensive  as  long. 
Instead  of  stealing  the  goods  which  other 
people  used,  he  purchased  what  he  could 
not  use  himself.  He  was  not  difficult  in 
his  choice  of  the  property  that  entered  his 
house  ;  if  there  was  bulk,  he  was  satisfied. 

His  dark  house,  and  his  dark  figure, 
corresponded  with  each  other.  The  apart- 
ments, choked  up  with  lumber,  scarcely 
admitted  his  body,  though  of  the  skeleton 
order.  Perhaps  leanness  is  an  appendage 
to  the  science,  for  I  never  knew  a  corpu- 
lent conjurer.  His  diet,  regular,  plain, 
and  slender,  showed  at  how  little  expense 
life  might  be  sustained.  His  library  con- 
sisted of  several  thousand  volumes,  not  one 
of  which,  I  believe,  he  ever  read  ;  having 
written,  in  characters  unknown  to  all  but 
himself,  his  name,  the  price,  and  the  date, 
in  the  title-page,  he  laid  them  by  for  ever. 
The  highest  pitch  of  his  erudition  was  the 
annual  almanack. 

He  never  wished  to  approach  a  woman, 
or  be  approached  by  one.  Should  the  rest 
of  men,  for  half  a  century,  pay  no  more 
attention  to  the  fair,  some  angelic  hand 
might  stick  up  a  note  like  the  arctic  circle 
over  one  of  our  continents,  "  this  world  to 
be  let." 

If  he  did  not  cultivate  the  acquaintance 
of  the  human  species,  the  spiders,  more 
numerous  than  his  books,  enjoyed  an  unin- 
terrupted reign  of  quiet.  The  silence  of 
the  pluce  was  not  broken ;  the  broom,  the 


book,  the  dust,  or  the  web,  was  not  dis- 
turbed. Mercury  and  his  shirt  performed 
their  revolutions  together;  and  Saturn 
changed  his  with  his  coat.  He  died  in 
1756,  as  conjurers  usually  die,  unla- 
mented.* 


PATIENCE. 
For  the  Table  Book 

As  the  pent  water  of  a  mill-dam  lies 

Motionless,  yielding,  noiseless,  and  serene. 
Patience  waits  meekly  with  companioned  eyes  ; 

Or  like  the  speck-cloud,  which  alone  is  seen 
Silver'd  within  blue  space,  ling'ring  for  air 

On  which  to  sail  prophetic  voyages ; 
Or  as  the  fountain  stone  that  doth  not  wear, 

But  suits  itself  to  pressure,  and  with  ease 
Diverts  the  dropping  crystal ;  or  the  wife 

That  sits  beside  her  husband  and  her  love 
Subliming  to  another  state  and  life, 

OffYing  him  consolation  as  a  dove, — 
Her  sighs  and  tears,  her  heartache  and  her  mind 
Devout,  untired,  calm,  precious,  and  resign'd. 


Zritfefo 


CATALOGUE  OF  PAINTED  BRITISH  POR- 
TRAITS, comprising  most  of  the  Sove- 
reigns of  England,  from  Henry  1.  to 
George  IV.,  and  many  distinguished 
personages  ;  principally  the  produc- 
tions of  Holbein,  Zucchero,  C.  Jansen, 
Vandyck,  Hudson,  Reynolds,  North- 
cote,  &c,  Noio  selling  at  the  prices 
affixed,  by  HORATIO  Rono,  17,  Air- 
street,  Piccadilly.  1827. 

This  is  an  age  of  book  and  print  cata- 
logues ;  and  lo  !  we  have  a  picture  dealer's 
catalogue  of  portraits,  painted  in  oil,  from 
the  price  of  two  guineas  to  sixty.  There 
is  only  one  of  so  high  value  as  the  latter 
sum,  and  this  is  perhaps  the  most  interest- 
ing in  Mr.  Rodd's  collection,  and  he  has 
allowed  the  present  engraving  from  it.  The 
picture  is  in  size  thirty  inches  by  twenty- 
five.  The  subjoined  particulars  are  from 
the  catalogue. 


•  Hist,  of  Birmingham. 


237 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


238 


iCobat. 


FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  PICTURE  BY  HOGARTH,  LATELY  DISCOVERED. 


"  To  the  present  time,  none  of  Hogarth's 
biographers  appear  to  have  been  aware  of 
the  '  local  habitation'  of  the  original  paint- 
ing from  which  the  artist  published  his 
etching,  the  popularity  of  which,  at  the 
period  to  which  it  alludes,  was  so  great, 
that  a  printseller  offered  for  it  its  weight  in 
gold  :  that  offer  the  artist  rejected ;  and  he 
is  said  to  have  received  from  its  sale,  for 
many  weeks,  at  the  rate  of  twelve  pounds 
each  day.  The  impressions  could  not  be 
taken  off  so  fast  as  they  were  wanted, 
though  the  rolling-press  was  at  work  all 
night  by  the  week  together. 


"  Hogarth  said  himself,  that  lord  Lovat's 
portrait  was  taken  at  the  White  Hart-inn, 
at  St.  Alban's,  in  the  attitude  of  relating  on 
his  fingers  the  numbers  of  the  rebel  forces  : 
'  Such  a  general  had  so  many  men,  &c.  ;' 
and  remarked  that  the  muscles  of  Lovat's 
neck  appeared  of  unusual  strength,  more 
so  than  lie  had  ever  seen.  Samuel  Ireland, 
in  his  Graphic  Illustrations  of  Hogarlh, 
vol.  i.  p.  146,  states  that  Hogarth  was  in- 
vited to  St.  Alban's  for  the  express  purpose 
of  being  introduced  to  Lovat,  who  was  then 
resting  at  the  White  Hart-inn,  on  his  wny 
to  London  from  Scotland,  by  Dr.  Webster, 


239 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


540 


a  physician  residing  at  St.  Alban's,  and  well 
known  to  Boswell,  Johnson,  and  other  emi- 
nent literary  characters  of  that  period. 
Hogarth  had  never  seen  Lovat  before,  and 
was,  through  the  doctor's  introduction,  re- 
ceived with  much  cordiality,  even  to  the 
kiss  fraternal,  which  was  then  certainly  not 
very  pleasant,  as  his  lordship,  being  under 
the  barber's  hands,  left  in  the  salute  much 
of  the  lather  on  the  artist's  face.  Lord 
Lovat  rested  two  or  three  days  at  St.  Al- 
ban's, and  was  under  the  immediate  care  of 
Dr.  Webster,  who  thought  his  patient's  ill- 
ness was  feigned  with  his  usual  cunning,  or 
if  at  all  real,  arose  principally  from  his  ap- 
prehension of  danger  on  reaching  London. 
The  short  stay  of  Lovat  at  St.  Alban's 
allowed  the  artist  but  scanty  opportunity 
of  providing  the  materials  for  a  complete 
picture;  hence  some  carpenter  was  em- 
oloyed  on  the  instant  to  glue  together  some 
Jeal  board,  and  plane  down  one  side, 
which  is  evident  from  the  back  being  in  the 
usual  rough  state  in  which  the  plank  leaves 
the  saw-pit.  The  painting,  from  the  thin- 
ness of  the  priming-ground,  bears  evident 
proof  of  the  haste  with  which  the  portrait 
was  accomplished.  The  course  lineament 
of  features  so  strongly  exhibited  in  his 
countenance,  is  admirably  hit  off;  so  well 
has  Buncombe  expressed  it, 

•  Lovat's  hard  features  Hogarth  might  command ;' 

for  his  pencil  was  peculiarly  adapted  to 
such  representation.  It  is  observable  the 
button  holes  of  the  coat,  &c.,  are  reversed 
in  the  artist's  etching,  which  was  professed 
to  be  '  drawn  from  the  life,  &c. ;'  and  in 
the  upper  corner  of  the  picture  are  satirical 
heraldic  insignia,  allusive  to  the  artist's 
idea  of  his  future  destiny." 

The  "  satirical  heraldic  insignia,"  men- 
tioned in  the  above  description,  and  repre- 
sented in  the  present  engraving,  do  not 
appear  in  Hogarth's  well-known  whole 
length  etching  of  lord  Lovat.  The  picture 
is  a  half-length  ;  it  was  found  in  the  house 
of  a  poor  person  at  Verulam,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  St.  Alban's,  where  Hogarth 
painted  it  eighty  years  ago,  and  it  is  a  singu- 
lar fact,  that  till  its  discovery  a  few  weeks 
ago,  such  a  picture  was  not  known  to  have 
been  executed.  In  all  probability,  Hogarth 
obliged  his  friend,  Dr.  Webster,  with  it, 
and  after  the  doctor's  death  it  passed  to 
some  heedless  individual,  and  remained 
in  obscurity  from  that  time  to  the  present.* 
Further  observation  on  it  is  needless ;  for 


*  There  is  an  nccoint  of  lord  Lovat  in  the 
Day  Book. 


Evcry- 


persons  who  are  interested  concerning  the 
individual  whom  Hogarth  has  portrayed, 
or  who  are  anxious  respecting  the  works  of 
that  distinguished  artist,  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  it  at  Mr.  Rodd's  until  it  is 
sold. 

As  regards  the  other  portraits  in  oil, 
collected  by  Mr.  Rodd,  and  now  offered 
by  him  for  sale,  after  the  manner  of  book- 
sellers, "  at  the  prices  annexed,"  they  can 
be  judged  of  with  like  facility.  Like  book- 
sellers, who  tempt  the  owners  of  empty 
shelves,  with  "  long  sets  to  fill  up  "  at 
small  prices,  Mr.  R.  "  acquaints  the  no- 
bility and  gentry,  having  spacious  country 
mansions,  that  he  has  many  portraits  of 
considerable  interest  as  specimens  of  art, 
but  of  whom  the  picture  is  intended  to  re- 
present, matter  of  doubt :  as  such  pictures 
would  enliven  many  of  their  large  rooms, 
and  particularly  the  halls,  they  may  be  had 
at  very  low  prices." 

Mr.  Rodd's  ascertained  pictures  really 
form  a  highly  interesting  collection  of 
"  painted  British  Portraits,"  from  whence 
collectors  may  select  what  they  please  : 
his  mode  of  announcing  such  productions, 
by  way  of  catalogue,  seems  well  adapted 
to  bring  buyers  and  sellers  together,  and  is 
noticed  here  as  an  instance  of  spirited  de- 
parture from  the  ancient  trading  rule,  viz. 

Twiddle  your  thumbs 
Till  a  customer  comes. 


DEATH'S  DOINGS. 

"  I  am  now  worth  one  hundred  thousand 
pounds,"  said  old  Gregory,  as  he  ascended 
a  hill,  which  commanded  a  full  prospect  of 
an  estate  he  had  just  purchased  ;  "  I  am 
»now  worth  one  hundred  thousand  pounds, 
and  here,"  said  he,  "  I'll  plant  an  orchard  : 
and  on  that  spot  I'll  have  a  pinery — 

"  Yon  farm  houses  shall  come  down," 
said  old  Gregory,  "  they  interrupt  my 
view." 

"  Then,  what  will  become  of  tne  far- 
mers ?"  asked  the  steward,  who  attended 
him. 

"  That's  their  business,"  answered  old 
Gregory. 

"  And  that  mill  must  not  stand  upon  the 
stream,"  said  old  Gregory. 

"Then, how  will  the  villagers  grind  their 
corn  ?"  asked  the  steward. 

"  That's  not  my  business,"  answered  old 
Gregory. 

So  old  Gregory  returned  home — ate  a 
hearty  supper— drank  a  bottle  ot  port- 


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242 


smoked  two  pipes  of  tobacco — and  fell  into 
a  profound  slumber — and  awoke  no  more  ; 
and  the  farmers  reside  on  their  lands — and 
the  mill  stands  upon  the  stream — and  the 
villagers  rejoice  that  Death  did  "business  " 
with  old  Gregory. 


THE  BARBER. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

Barbers  are  distinguished  by  peculiarities 
appertaining  to  no  other  class  of  men.  They 
have  a  caste,  and  are  a  race  of  themselves. 
The  members  of  this  ancient  and  gentle 
profession — foul  befall  the  libeller  who  shall 
designate  it  a  trade — are  mild,  peaceable, 
cheerful,  polite,  and  communicative.  They 
mingle  with  no  cabal,  have  no  interest  in 
factions,  are  "  open  to  all  parties,  and 
influenced  by  none;"  and  they  have  a 
good,  kind,  or  civil  word  for  everybody. 
The  cheerful  morning  salutation  of  one  of 
these  cleanly,  respectable  persons  is  a 
"  handsell ''  for  the  pleasures  of  the  day  ; 
serenity  is  in  its  tone,  and  comfort  glances 
from  its  accompanying  smile.  Their  small, 
cool,  clean,  and  sparingly-furnished  shops, 
with  sanded  floor  and  towelled  walls,  re- 
lieved by  the  white-painted,  well-scoured 
shelves,  scantily  adorned  with  the  various 
implements  of  their  art,  denote  the  snug  sys- 
tem of  economy  which  characterises  the 
owners.  Here,  only,  is  the  looking-glass 
not  an  emblem  of  vanity  :  it  is  placed  to 
reflect,  and  not  to  flatter.  You  seat  your- 
self in  the  lowly,  antique  chair,  worn 
smooth  by  the  backs  of  half  a  century  of 
beard-owners,  and  instantly  feel  a  full  re- 
pose from  fatigue  of  body  and  mind.  You 
find  yourself  in  attentive  and  gentle  hands, 
and  are  persuaded  that  no  man  can  be  in 
collision  with  his  shaver  or  hair-dresser. 
The  very  operation  tends  to  set  you  on 
better  terms  with  yourself:  and  your  barber 
hath  not  in  his  constitution  the  slightest 
element  of  difference.  The  adjustment  of 
a  curl,  the  clipping  of  a  lock,  the  trimming 
of  a  whisker,  (that  much-cherished  and 
highly-valued  adornment  of  the  face,)  are 
matters  of  paramount  importance  to  both 
parties — threads  of  sympathy  for  the  time, 
unbroken  by  the  divesture  of  the  thin,  soft, 
ample  mantle,  that  enveloped  you  in  its 
snowy  folds  while  under  his  care.  Who 
can  entertain  ill-humour,  much  less  vent 
his  spleen,  while  wrapt  in  the  symbolic 
vestment?  The  veriest  churl  is  softened 
by  the  application  of  the  warm  emollient 
brush,  and  calmed  into  complacency  by 
the  light-handed  hoverings  of  the  comb 


and  scissors.  A  smile,  a  compliment,  a 
remark  on  the  weather,  a  diffident,  side- 
wind inquiry  about  politics,  or  the  passing 
intelligence  of  the  day,  are  tendered  with 
that  deference,  which  is  the  most  grateful 
as  well  as  the  handsomest  demonstration  of 
politeness.  Should  you,  on  sitting  down, 
nalf-blushingly  request  him  to  cut  off  "  as 
large  a  lock  as  he  can,  merely,"  you  assure 
him,  "  that  you  may  detect  any  future 
change  in  its  colour,"  how  skilfully  he  ex- 
tracts, from  your  rather  thin  head  of  hair,  a 
graceful,  flowing  lock,  which  self-love 
alone  prevents  you  from  doubting  to  have 
been  grown  by  yourself:  how  pleasantly 
you  contemplate,  in  idea,  its  glossiness 
from  beneath  the  intended  glass  of  the  pro- 
pitiatory locket.  A  web  of  delightful 
associations  is  thus  woven  ;  and  the  care  he 
takes  to  "  make  each  particular  hair  to 
stand  on  end  "  to  your  wishes,  so  as  to  let 
you  know  he  surmises  your  destination, 
completes  the  charm. — We  never  hear  of 
people  cutting  their  throats  in  a  barber's 
shop,  though  the  place  is  redolent  of  razors. 
No ;  the  ensanguined  spots  that  occasion- 
ally besmirch  the  whiteness  of  the  revolving 
towel  is  from  careless,  unskilful,  and  opi- 
niated  individuals,  who  mow  their  own 
beards,  or  refuse  to  restrain  their  risibility. 
I  wonder  how  any  can  usurp  the  province 
of  the  barber,  (once  an  almost  exclusive 
one,)  and  apply  unskilful,  or  unpractised 
hands  so  near  to  the  grand  canal  of  life. 
For  my  own  part,  I  would  not  lose  the 
daily  elevation  of  my  tender  nose,  by  the 
velvet-tipped  digits  of  my  barber — no,  not 
for  an  independence ! 

The  genuine  barber  is  usually  (like  his 
razors)  well-tempered  ;  a  man  unvisited  by 
care ;  combining  a  somewhat  hasty  assi- 
duity, with  an  easy  and  respectful  manner. 
He  exhibits  the  best  part  of  the  character 
of  a  Frenchman — an  uniform  exterior  sua- 
vity, and  politesse.  He  seems  a  faded 
nobleman,  or  emigrt  of  the  old  regime. 
And  surely  if  the  souls  of  men  transmigrate, 
those  of  the  old  French  noblesse  seek  the 
congenial  soil  of  the  barber's  bosom  !  Is  it 
a  degradation  of  worthy  and  untroubled 
spirits,  to  imagine,  that  they  animate  the 
bodies  of  the  harmless  and  unsophisticated  .' 

In  person  the  barber  usually  inclines  to 
the  portly  ;  but  is  rarely  obese.  His  is 
that  agreeable  plumpness  betokening  the 
man  at  ease  with  himself  and  the  world — 
and  the  utter  absence  of  that  fretfulness 
ascribed  to  leanness.  Nor  do  his  comely 
proportions  and  fleshiness  make  leaden  the 
heels,  or  lessen  the  elasticity  of  his  step, 
or  transmute  his  feathery  lightness  of  hand 


243 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


214 


to  heaviness.  He  usually  wears  powder, 
for  it  looks  respectable,  and  is  professional 
withal.  The  last  of  the  almost  forgotten 
and  quite  despised  raee  of  pigtails,  once 
proudly  cherished  by  all  ranks — now  pro- 
scribed, banished,  or,  if  at  all  seen,  dimi- 
nished in  stateliness  and  bulk,  "  shorn  of 
its  fair  proportions,'' — lingers  fondly  with 
its  former  nurturer ;  the  neat-combed,  even- 
clipped  hairs,  encased  in  their  tight  swathe 
of  black  ribbon,  topped  by  an  airy  bow, 
nestle  in  the  well-clothed  neck  of  the  mo- 
dern barber.  Yet  why  do  I  call  him 
modern  ?  True,  he  lives  in  our,  but  he 
belongs  to  former  times,  of  which  he  is  the 
remembrancer  and  historian — the  days  of 
bags,  queues,  clubs,  and  periwigs,  when  a 
halo  of  powder,  pomatum,  and  frizzed  curls 
encircled  the  heads  of  our  ancestors.  That 
glory  is  departed ;  the  brisk  and  agile 
tensor,  once  the  genius  of  the  toilet,  no 
longer  directs,  with  the  precision  of  a  can- 
noneer, rapid  discharges  of  scented  atoms 
against  bristling  batteries  of  his  own  crea- 
*.ion..  "The  barber's  occupation's  gone," 
with  all  the  "  pride,  pomp,  and  circum- 
stance of  glorious  wigs  !" 

Methinks  I  detect  some  unfledged  reader, 
upon  whose  head  of  hair  the  sun  of  the 
eighteenth  century  never  shone,  glancing 
his  "  mind's  eye "  to  one  of  the  more 
recent  and  fashionable  professors  of  the  art 
of  "  ciseaune" — one  of  the  chemical  per- 
fumers, or  self-esteemed  practitioners  of  the 
present  day,  in  search  of  an  exemplification 
of  my  description  : — he  is  at  fault.  Though 
he  may  deem  Truefit  or  Macalpine  mo- 
dels of  skill,  and  therefore  of  description,  I 
must  tell  him  I  recognise  none  such.  I 
speak  of  the  last  generation,  (between 
which  and  the  present,  Ross,  and  Taylor  of 
Whitechapel,  are  the  connecting  links,)  the 
last  remnants  of  whom  haunt  the  solitary, 
well-paved,silent  corners,and  less  frequented 
streets  of  London — whose  windows  ex- 
hibit no  waxen  busts,  bepainted  and  be- 
dizened in  fancy  dresses  and  flaunting 
feathers,  but  one  or  two  "old  original" 
blocks  or  dummies,  crowned  with  sober- 
looking,  respectable,  stiff-buckled,  brown 
wigs,  such  as  our  late  venerable  monarch 
used  to  wear.  There  is  an  aboriginal  wig- 
maker's  shop  at  the  corner  of  an  inn-yard 
in  Bishopsgate-street ;  a  "  repository  "  of 
hair ;  the  window  of  which  is  lull  of  these 
primitive  caxons,  all  of  a  sober  brown,  or 
simpler  flaxen,  with  an  occasional  contrast 
of  rusty  black,  forming,  as  it  were,  a  finis 
to  the  by-gone  fashion.  Had  our  first  fore- 
father, Adam,  been  bald,  he  could  not  have 
worn  a  more  simply  artificial  imitation  of 


nature  than  one  of  these  wigs — so  frank,  30 
sincere,  and  so  warm  an  apology  for  want 
of  hair,  scorning  to  deceive  the  observer, 
or  to  crown  the  veteran  head  witn  adoles- 
cent curls.  The  ancient  wig,  whether 
a  simple  scratch,  a  plain  bob,  or  a  splendid 
periwig,  was  one  which  a  man  might  mo- 
destly hold  on  one  hand,  while  with  the 
other  he  wiped  his  bald  pate ;  but  with 
what  grace  could  a  modern  wig-wearer 
dismount  a  specific  deception,  an  elaborate 
imitation  of  natural  curls  to  exhibit  a  hair- 
less scalp  ?  It  would  be  either  a  censure 
on  his  vanity,  or  a  sarcasm  on  his  other- 
wise unknown  deficiency.  The  old  wig, 
on  the  contrary,  was  a  plain  acknowledg- 
ment of  want  of  hair  ;  avowing  the  com- 
fort, or  the  inconvenience,  (as  it  might 
happen,)  with  an  independent  indifference 
to  mirth  or  pity  ;  and  forming  a  decent 
covering  to  the  head  that  sought  not  to  be- 
come either  a  decoration  or  deceit.  Peace 
to  the  manes  of  the  primitive  artificers  of 
human  hair — the  true  skull-thatchers — the 
architects  of  towering  toupees — -the  en- 
gineers of  flowing  periwigs  ! 

The  wig-makers  (as  they  still  denominate 
themselves)  in  Lincoln's-inn  and  the  Tem- 
ple, are  quite  of  the  "  old  school."  Their 
shady,  cool,  cleanly,  classic  recesses,  where 
embryo  chancellors  have  been  measured 
for  their  initiatory  forensic  wigs;  where  the 
powdered  glories  of  the  bench  have  oft- 
times  received  a  re-revivification ;  where 
some  "  old  Bencher"  still  resorts,  in  his 
undress,  to  have  his  nightly  growth  of 
beard  shaven  by  the  "  particular  razor  ;*' 
these  powder-scented  nooks,  these  legal 
dressing-closets  seem,  like  the  "  statutes  at 
large,"  to  resist,  tacitly  but  effectually,  the 
progress  of  innovation.  They  are  like  the 
old  law  offices,  which  are  scattered  up  and 
down  in  various  corners  of  the  intricate 
maze  of  "  courts,"  constituting  the  "  Tem- 
ple"— unchangeable  by  time ;  except  when 
the  hand  of  death  removes  some  old 
tenant  at  will,  who  has  been  refreshed  by 
the  cool-borne  breezes  from  the  river,  or 
soothed  by  the  restless  monotony  of  the 
plashing  fountain,  "  sixty  years  since." — 
But  I  grow  serious. — The  barber  possesses 
that  distinction  of  gentleness,  a  soft  and 
white  hand,  of  genial  and  equable  tempera- 
ture, neither  falling  to  the  "zero"  of  chilli^ 
ness,  nor  rising  to  the  "  fever  heat "  of 
perspiration,  but  usually  lingering  at 
"  blood  heat."  I  know  not  if  any  one  ever 
shook  hands  with  his  barber :  there  needs 
no  such  outward  demonstration  of  good- 
will ;  no  grip,  like  that  we  bestow  upon 
an  old  friend  returned  after  a  long  absence, 


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THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


246 


by  way  of  rivet,  as  it  were,  to  that  link  in 
the  chain  of  friendship.  His  air  of  courtesy 
keeps  a  good  understanding  floating  be- 
tween him  and  his  customers,  which,  if 
ruffled  by  a  hasty  departure,  or  dismissal, 
is  revived  the  next  day  by  the  sun-light  of 
his  morning  smile ! 

The  barber's  hand  is  unlike  that  of  any 
other  soft  hand  :  it  is  not  flabby,  like  that 
of  a  sensualist;  nor  arid,  and  thin,  like  a  stu- 
dent's ;  nor  dead  white,  like  that  of  a  deli- 
cate female ;  but  it  is  naturally  warm,  of  a 
glowing,  transparent  colour,  and  of  a 
cushiony,  elastic  softness.  Beneath  its 
conciliatory  touch,  as  it  prepares  the  skin 
for  the  sweeping  course  of  the  razor,  and  its 
gentle  pressure,  as  it  inclines  the  head  to 
either  side,  to  aid  the  operation  of  the  scis- 
sors, a  man  may  sit  for  hours,  and  feel  no 
weariness.  Happy  must  he  be  who  lived 
m  the  days  of  long,  or  full-dressed  hair, 
and  resigned  himself  for  a  full  hour  to  the 
passive  luxury  of  hair-dressing  !  A  morn- 
ing's toilette — (for  a  gentleman,  I  mean ; 
being  a  bachelor,  I  am  uninitiated  in  the 
arcana  of  a  lady's  dressing-room) — a  morn- 
ing's toilette  in  those  days  was  indeed  an 
important  part  of  the  "business  of  life:" 
there  were  the  curling-irons,  the  comb,  the 
pomatum,  the  powder-puff,  the  powder- 
knife,  the  mask,  and  a  dozen  other  requi- 
sites to  complete  the  elaborate  process  that 
perfected  that  mysterious  "  frappant,  or 
tintinabulant  appendage  "  to  the  back  part 
of  the  head.  Oh  !  it  must  have  been  a 
luxury — a  delight  surpassing  the  famed 
baths  and  cosmetics  of  the  east. 

I  have  said  that  the  barber  is  a  gentle 
man ;  if  not  in  so  many  words,  I  have  at 
least  pointed  out  that  distinguishing  trait 
in  him.  He  is  also  a  humane  man :  his 
occupation  of  torturing  hairs  leaves  him 
neither  leisure  nor  disposition  to  torture 
ought  else.  He  looks  as  respectable  as  he 
is ;  and  he  is  void  of  any  appearance  of 
deceit  or  cunning.  There  is  less  of  per- 
sonality or  egotism  about  him  than  mankind 
in  general  :  though  he  possesses  an  idio- 
syncrasy, it  is  that  of  his  class,  not  of  him- 
self. As  he  sits,  patiently  renovating  some 
dilapidated  peruke,  or  perseveringly  pre- 
sides over  the  developement  of  grace  in 
some  intractable  bush  of  hair,  or  stands 
at  his  own  threshold,  in  the  cleanly  pride 
of  white  apron  and  hose,  lustrous  shoes, 
and  exemplary  jacket,  with  that  studied 
yet  seeming  disarrangement  of  hair,  as 
though  subduing,  as  far  as  consistent  with 
propriety,  the  visible  appearance  of  tech- 
nical skill — as  he  thus,  untired,  goes  the 
never-varying  round  of  his  pleasant  occu- 


pation, and  active  leisure,  time  seems  to 
pass  unheeded,  and  the  wheel  of  chance, 
scattering  fragments  of  circumstance  from 
the  rock  of  destiny,  continues  its  relentless 
and  unremittent  revolution,  unnoticed  by 
him.  He  hears  not  the  roar  of  the  fearful 
engine,  the  groans  and  sighs  of  despair,  or 
the  wild  laugh  of  exultation,  produced  by 
its  mighty  working.  All  is  remote,  strange, 
and  intricate,  and  belongs  not  to  him  to 
know.  He  dwells  in  an  area  of  peace — a 
magic  circle  whose  area  might  be  de- 
scribed by  his  obsolete  sign-pole  ! 

Nor  does  the  character  of  the  barber  vary 
in  other  countries.  He  seems  to  flourish  in 
unobtrusive  prosperity  all  the  world  over. 
In  the  east,  the  clime  most  congenial  to  his 
avocations,  the  voluminous  beard  makes 
up  for  the  deficiency  of  the  ever-turbaned, 
close-shorn  skull,  and  he  exhibits  the  tri- 
umph of  his  skill  in  its  most  special  depart- 
ment. Transport  an  English  barber  to  Sa- 
marcand,  or  Ispahan,  and,  saving  the  lan- 
guage, he  would  feel  quite  at  home.  Here 
he  reads  the  newspaper,  and,  unless  any 
part  is  contradicted-  by  his  customers, 
he  believes  it  all :  it  is  his  oracle.  At 
Constantinople  the  chief  eunuch  would  con- 
fide to  him  the  secrets  of  the  seraglio  as  if 
he  were  a  genuine  disciple  of  Mahomet; 
and  with  as  right  good  will  as  ever  old 
"  gossip''  vented  a  bit  of  scandal  with  un- 
constrained volubility  of  tongue.  He  would 
listen  to,  aye  and  put  faith  in,  the  relations 
of  the  coffee-house  story-tellers  who  came  to 
have  their  beards  trimmed,  and  repaid  him 
with  one  of  their  inventions  for  his  trouble. 
What  a  dissection  would  a  barber's  brain 
afford,  could  we  but  discern  the  mine  of 
latent  feuds  and  conspiracies  laid  up  there 
in  coil,  by  their  spleenful  and  mischievous 
inventors.  I  would  that  I  could  unpack 
the  hoarded  venom,  all  hurtless  in  that 
"  cool  grot,"  as  destructive  stores  are  de- 
posited in  an  arsenal,  where  light  and  heat 
never  come.  His  mind  admits  no  spark  of 
malice  to  fire  the  train  of  jealousy,  or  ex- 
plode the  ammunition  of  petty  strrfe ;  and 
it  were  well  for  the  world  and  society,  if 
the  intrigue  and  spite  of  its  inhabitants 
could  be  poured,  like  the  "  cursed  juice  of 
Hebenon,"  into  his  ever-open  ear,  and  be 
buried  for  ever  in  the  oblivious  chambers 
of  his  brain.  Vast  as  the  caverned  ear 
of  Dionysius  the  tyrant,  his  contains  in  its 
labyrinthine  recesses  the  collected  scandal 
of  neighbourhoods,  the  chatter  of  house- 
holds, and  even  the  crooked  policy  of 
courts  ;  but  ail  is  decomposed  and  neutra- 
lized there.  It  is  the  very  quantity  of  this 
freight  of  plot  and  detraction  that  renders 


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248 


him  so  harmless.  It  is  as  ballast  to  the 
sails  of  his  judgment.  He  mixes  in  no 
conspiracy,  domestic  or  public.  The  foul- 
est treason  would  remain  "  pure  in  the  last 
recesses  of  his  mind."  He  knows  not  of, 
cares  not  for,  feels  no  interest  in  all  this 
material  of  wickedness,  any  more  than  the 
unconscious  paper  that  bears  on  its  lettered 
forehead  the  "  sixth  edition"  of  a  bulletin. 
Amiable,  contented,  respected  race  !— 
I  exclaim  with  Figaro, "  Oh,  that  I  were  a 
happy  barber !" 

G ASTON. 


THE  KING  OF  INDIA'S  LIBRARY. 

Dabshelim,  king  of  India,  had  so  nume- 
rous a  library,  that  a  hundred  brachmans 
were  scarcely  sufficient  to  keep  it  in  order ; 
and  it  required  a  thousand  dromedaries  to 
transport  it  from  one  place  to  another.  As 
be  was  not  able  to  read  all  these  books,  he 
proposed  to  the  brachmans  to  make  extracts 
from  them  of  the  best  and  most  useful  of 
their  contents.  These  learned  personages 
set  themselves  so  heartily  to  work,  that  in 
less  than  twenty  years  they  had  compiled  of 
all  these  extracts  a  little  encyclopaedia  of 
twelve  thousand  volumes,  which  thirty 
camels  could  carry  with  ease.  They  had 
the  honour  to  present  it  to  the  king.  But, 
how  great  was  their  amazement,  on  his 
giving  them  for  answer,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible for  him  to  read  thirty  camel-loads  of 
books.  They  therefore  reduced  their  ex- 
tracts to  fifteen,  afterwards  to  ten,  then  to 
four,  then  to  two  dromedaries,  and  at  last 
there  remained  only  so  much  as  to  load  a 
mule  of  ordinary  stature. 

Unfortunately,  Dabshelim,  during  this 
process  of  melting  down  his  library,  was 
grown  old,  and  saw  no  probability  of  living 
to  exhaust  its  quintessence  to  the  last  vo- 
lume. "  Illustrious  sultan,"  said  his  vizir, 
the  sage  Pilpay,  "  though  I  have  but  a  very 
imperfect  knowledge  of  your  royal  library, 
yet  I  will  undertake  to  deliver  you  a  very 
brief  and  satisfactory  abstract  of  it.  You 
shall  read  it  through  in  one  minute,  and 
yet  you  will  find  matter  in  it  for  reflecting 
upon  throughout  the  rest  of  your  life." 
Having  said  this,  Pilpay  took  a  palm  leaf, 
and  wrote  upon  it  with  a  golden  style  the 
four  following  sentences : — 

1.  The  greater  part  of  the  sciences  com- 
prise but  one  single  word — Perhaps  :  and 
the  whole  history  of  mankind  contains  no 
more  than  three — they  are  born,  suffer,  din. 


2.  Love  nothing  but  what  is  good,  and 
do  all  that  thou  lovest  to  do ;  tnink  nothing 
but  what  is  true,  and  speak  not  all  that 
thou  thinkest. 

3.  O  kings  !  tame  your  passions,  govern 
yourselves  ;  and  it  will  be  only  child's  play 
to  you  to  govern  the  world. 

4.  O  kings  !  O  people  !  it  can  never  be 
often   enough   repeated   to   you,  what  the 
half-witted  venture  to  doubt,  that  there  is 
no  happiness  without  virtue,  and  no  virtue 
without  the  fear  of  God. 


ENCOURAGEMENT  TO  AUTHORS. 

Whether  it  is  perfectly  consistent  in  an 
author  to  solicit  the  indulgence  of  the  pub- 
lic, though  it  may  stand  first  in  his  wishes, 
admits  a  doubt ;  for,  if  his  productions 
will  not  bear  the  light,  it  may  be  said,  why 
does  he  publish  ?  but,  if  they  will,  there  is 
no  need  to  ask  a  favour ;  the  world  receives 
one  from  him.  Will  not  a  piece  everlast- 
ingly be  tried  by  its  merit?  Shall  we 
esteem  it  the  higher,  because  it  was  written 
at  the  age  of  thirteen  ?  because  it  was  the 
effort  of  a  week  ?  delivered  extempore  ? 
hatched  while  the  author  stood  upon  one 
leg  ?  or  cobbled,  while  he  cobbled  a  shoe 
or  will  it  be  a  recommendation,  that  it  issue* 
forth  in  gilt  binding  ?  The  judicious 
world  will  not  be  deceived  by  the  tinselled 
purse,  but  will  examine  whether  the  on- 
tents  are  sterling. 


POETICAL  ADVICE. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

I  have  pleasure  in  being  at  liberty  to 
publish  a  poetical  letter  to  a  young  poet 
from  one  yet  younger;  who,  before  the 
years  of  manhood,  has  attained  the  height 
of  knowing  on  what  conditions  the  muse 
may  be  successfully  wooed,  and  imparts  the 
secret  to  his  friend.  Some  lines  towards 
the  close,  which  refer  to  his  co-aspirant's 
effusions,  are  omitted. 

To  R.  R. 

To  you,  dear  Rowland,  lodg'd  in  town, 

Where  Pleasure's  smile  soothes  Winter's  frown, 

I  write  while  chilly  breezes  blow, 

And  the  dense  clouds  descend  in  snow. 

For  Twenty-six  is  nearly  dead. 

And  age  has  whiten'd  o'er  her  head ; 

Her  velvet  robe  is  stripp'd  away, 

Her  watery  pulses  hardly  play  ; 

Clogg'd  with  the  withering  leaves,  the  wind 

Comes  with  his  blighting  blast  behind. 


249 


THE     ABLE  BOOK 


And  here  and  there,  with  prying  eye, 
And  flagging  wings  a  bird  flits  by; 
(For  every  Robin  sparer  grows, 
And  every  Sparrow  robbing  goes.) 
The  Year's  two  eyes — the  sun  and  moon — 
Are  fading,  and  will  fade  full  soon  ;* 
With  shattered  forces  Autumn  yields, 
And  Winter  triumphs  o'er  the  fields. 

So  thus,  alas !  I'm  gagg'd  it  seems, 
From  converse  of  the  woods  and  streams, 
(For  all  the  countless  rhyming  rabble 
Hold  leaves  can  whisper — waters  babble) 
And,  house-bound  for  whole  weeks  together 
By  stress  of  lungs,  and  stress  of  weather, 
Feed  on  the  more  delightful  strains 
Of  howling  winds,  and  pelting  rains ; 
Which  shake  the  house,  from  rear  to  van, 
Like  valetudinarian ; 
Pouring  innumerable  streams 
Of  arrows,  thro'  a  thousand  seams : 
Arrows  so  fine,  the  nicest  eye 
Their  thickest  flight  can  ne'er  descry, — 
Yet  fashion'd  with  such  subtle  art, 
They  strike  their  victim  to  the  heart ; 
While  imps,  that  fly  upon  the  point, 
Raise  racking  pains  in  every  joint. 

Nay,  more — these  winds  are  thought  magicians. 

And  supereminent  physicians : 

For  men  who  have  been  kill'd  outright, 

They  cure  again  at  dead  of  night. 

That  double  witch,  who  erst  did  dwell 

In  Kndor's  cave,  raised  Samuel ; 

But  they  each  night  raise  countless  hosts 

Of  wandering  sprites,  and  sheeted  ghosts ; 

Turn  shaking  locks  to  clanking  chains, 

And  howl  most  supernatural  strains : 

While  all  our  dunces  lose  their  wits, 

And  pass  the  night  in  ague-fits. 

While  this  nocturnal  serret  blowt 

I  hide  my  head  beneath  the  clothes, 

And  sue  the  power  whose  dew  distils 

The  only  balm  for  human  ills. 

All  day  the  sun's  prevailing  beam 

Absorbs  this  dew  from  Lethe's  stream : 

All  night  the  falling  moisture  sheds 

Oblivion  over  mortal  heads. 

Then  sinking  into  sleep  I  fall, 

And  leave  them  piping  at  their  ball. 

When  morning  comes — no  summer's  morn— 

I  wake  and  find  the  spectres  gone ; 

But  on  the  casement  see  emboss'd 

A  mimic  world  in  crusted  frost ; 

Ice-bergs,  high  shores,  and  wastes  of  snow, 

Mountains  above,  and  seas  below ; 

Or,  if  Imagination  bids, 

Vast  crystal  domes,  and  pyramids. 

Then  starting  from  my  conch  I  leap, 

And  shake  away  the  dregs  of  sleep, 

•  To  shield  this  line  from  criticism — 
'Tis  Parody — not  Plagiarism. 


Just  breathe  upon  the  grand  array, 
And  ice-bergs  slide  in  seas  away. 

Now  on  the  scout  I  sally  forth, 
The  weather-cock  due  E.  by  N. 
To  meet  some  masquerading  fog. 
Which  makes  all  nature  dance  incog. 
And  spreads  blue  devils,  and  blue  look*, 
Till  exercised  by  tongues  and  books. 

Books,  do  I  say  ?   full  well  I  wist 

A  book's  a  famous  exorcist ! 

A  book's  the  tow  that  makes  the  tether 

That  binds  the  quick  and  dead  together ; 

A  speaking  trumpet  under  ground, 

That  turns  a  silence  to  a  sound ; 

A  magic  mirror  form'd  to  show, 

Worlds  that  were  dust  ten  thousand  years  ago. 

They're  aromatic  cloths,  that  hold 

The  mind  embalm'd  in  many  a  fold, 

And  look,  arrang'd  in  dust-hung  rooms, 

Like  mummies  in  Egyptian  tombs ; 

— Enchanted  echoes,  that  reply, 

Not  to  the  ear,  but  to  the  eye ; 

Or  pow'rful  drugs,  that  give  the  brain, 

By  strange  contagion,  joy  or  pain. 

A  book's  the  phoenix  of  the  earth, 
Which  bursts  in  splendour  from  its  birth: 
And  like  the  moon  without  her  wanes, 
From  every  change  new  lustre  gains ; 
Shining  with  andiminish'd  light, 
While  ages  wing  their  idle  flight. 

By  such  a  glorious  theme  inspired 
Still  could  I  sing — but  you  are  tired: 
(Tho1  adamantine  lungs  would  do, 
Ears  should  be  adamantine  too,) 
And  thence  we  may  deduce  'tis  better 
To  answer  ('faith  'tis  time)  your  letter. 

To  answer  first  what  first  it  says. 
Why  will  you  speak  of  partial  praise  ? 
I  spoke  with  honesty  and  truth, 
And  now  you  seem  to  doubt  them  both. 
The  lynx's  eye  may  seem  to  him, 
Who  always  has  enjoy'd  it,  dim : 
And  brilliant  thoughts  to  you  may  be 
What  common-place  ones  are  to  me. 
You  note  them  not — but  cast  them  by, 
As  light  is  lavish'd  by  the  sky ; 
Or  streams  from  Indian  mountains  roll'd 
Fling  to  the  ocean  grains  of  gold. 
But  still  we  know  the  gold  is  fine — 
But  still  we  know  the  light's  divine. 

As  to  the  Century  and  Pope, 

The  thought's  not  so  absurd,  I  hope. 

I  don't  despair  to  see  a  throne 

Rear*d  above  his — and  p'rhaps  your  own. 

The  course  is  clear,  the  goal's  in  view, 

'Tis  free  to  all,  why  not  to  you  ? 

But,  ere  you  start,  you  should  surv*  ' 
The  towering  falcon  strike  her  prey : 
In  gradual  sweeps  the  sky  she  scales. 
Nor  all  at  once  the  bird  assails. 


251 


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252 


Bat  hems  him  iu — cuts  round  the  skies, 

And  gains  upon  him  as  he  flies. 

Wearied  and  faint  he  beats  the  air  in  va?n, 

Then  shuts  his  flaggy  wings,  and  pitches  to  the  plain. 

Now,  falcon  !  now  i    One  stoop — but  one, 

The  quarry's  struck — the  prize  is  won  1 

So  he  who  hopes  the  palm  to  gain, 

So  often  sought — and  sought  in  vain, 

Must  year  by  year,  as  roand  by  round, 

Iu  easy  circles  leave  the  ground : 

*Tis  time  has  taught  him  how  to  rise, 

And  naturalized  him  to  the  skies. 

Full  many  a  day  Pope  trod  the  vales, 

Mid  "  silver  streams  and  murmuring  gales.'' 

Long  fear'd  the  rising  hills  to  tread, 

Nor  ever  dared  the  mountain-head. 

It  needs  not  Milton  to  display, — 
Who  let  a  life-time  slide  away, 
Before  he  swept  the  sounding  string. 
And  soar'd  on  Pegasean  wing, — 
Nor  Homer's  ancient  form — to  show 
The  Laurel  takes  an  age  to  grow ; 
And  he  who  gives  his  name  to  fate, 
Must  plant  it  early,  reap  it  late ; 
Nor  pluck  the  blossoms  as  they  spring, 
So  beautiful,  yet  perishing. 


More  I  would  say — but,  see,  the  paper 
Is  nearly  out — and  so's  my  taper. 
So  while  I've  space,  and  while  I've  light, 
I'll  shake  your  hand,  and  bid  good-night. 

F.  P.  H. 

Croydon,  Dec.  17,1826. 


gnertrotes. 

GENERAL  WOLFE. 

It  is  related  of  this  distinguished  officer, 
that  his  death-wound  was  not  received  *by 
the  common  chance  of  war. 

Wolfe  perceived  one  of  the  sergeants  of 
his  regiment  strike  a  man  under  arms,  (an 
act  against  which  he  had  given  particular 
orders,)  and  knowing  the  man  to  be  a  good 
soldier)  reprehended  the  aggressor  with 
much  warmth,  and  threatened  to  reduce 
him  to  the  ranks.  This  so  far  incensed  the 
sergeant,  that  he  deserted  to  the  enemy, 
where  he  meditated  the  means  of  destroying 
the  general.  Being  placed  in  the  enemy's 
left  wing,  which  was  directly  opposed  to 
the  right  of  the  British  line,  where  Wolfe 
commanded  in  person,  he  aimed  at  his  old 
commander  with  his  rifle,  and  effected  his 
deadly  purpose. 


DR.  KING — His  PUN. 

The  late  Dr.  King,  of  Oxford,  by  actively 
interfeiing  in  some  measures  which  mate- 
rially affected  the  university  at  large,  be- 
came very  popular  with  some  individuals, 
and  as  obnoxious  with  others.  The  mode 
of  expressing  disapprobation  at  either  of 
the  universities  in  the  senate-house,  or 
schools,  is  by  scraping  with  the  feet :  but 
deviating  from  the  usual  custom,  a  party 
was  made  at  Oxford  to  hiss  the  doctor  at 
the  conclusion  of  a  Latin  oration  he  had  to 
make  in  public.  This  was  accordingly 
done  :  the  doctor,  however,  did  not  suffer 
himself  to  be  disconcerted,  but  turning 
round  to  the  vice-chancellor,  said,  very 
gravely,  in  an  audible  voice,  "  Laudatur  afe 
His." 


jftforuarp. 

Conviviality  and  good  cheer  may  con- 
vert the  most  dreary  time  of  the  year  into 
a  season  of  pleasure ;  and  association  ot 
ideas,  that  great  source  of  our  keenest  plea- 
sures, may  attach  delightful  images  to  the 
howling  wind  of  a  bleak  winter's  night, 
and  the  hoarse  screeching  and  mystic  hoot- 
ing of  the  ominous  owl.* 

WINTER. 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall. 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall. 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail ; 
When  blood  is  nipt,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

Ttt-who; 

Tu-whit  tu-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw : 
Then  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl. 
And  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

Tn-who ; 

Tu-whit  tu-who,  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

Shakspeart. 

To  "  keel"  the  pot  is  an  ancient  spelling 
for  "  cool,"  which  is  the  past  participle  of 
the  verb  :  see  Tooke's  "  Diversions  of  Pur- 
ley,"  where  this  passage  is  so  explained. 

*  Dr.  Forster's  Perennial  Calendar. 


25* 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


254 


Monument  at  lucerne,  fcesffgnrti  fop 


To  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  Swiss  GUARDS  WHO  WERE  MASSACRED  AT  THE 
ON  THE  TENTH  OF  AUGUST,  1792. 


The  engraving  above  is  executed  from 
a  clay  figure,  modelled  by  a  Swiss  artist 
from  the  original.  It  was  obligingly  sent 
to  the  editor,  for  the  present  purpose,  by 
the  gentleman  to  whom  it  belongs.  The 
model  was  presented  to  him  by  a  friend,  who, 
in  answer  to  his  inquiries  on  the  subject, 
wrote  him  a  letter,  of  which  the  following 
is  an  extract : — 

"  The  Terra  Incognita  you  mention 
comes  from  Lucerne,  in  Switzerland,  and  is 
the  model  of  a  colossal  work,  cut  in  the 
solid  rock,  close  to  that  city,  on  the  grounds 
of  general  Pfyffer.  It  is  from  a  design  fur- 
nished by  Thorwaldsen,  which  is  shown 
close  by.  The  <  L'envoi,'  as  don  Armado 
calls  it,  is  as  follows  : — '  The  Helvetian 
lion,  even  ir.  death,  protects  the  lilies  of 
France.'  The  monument  was  executed  by 
the  Swiss,  in  memory  of  their  countrymen, 

Vvit.  I.— 9 


who  were  massacred,  on  the  10th  of  August, 
at  the  Tuilleries,  in  defending  Louis  XVI. 
from  the  sans  culottes.  The  names  of  those 
who  perished  are  engraved  beneath  the  lion." 
The  particulars  of  the  dreadful  slaughter, 
wherein  these  helpless  victims  fell,  while 
defending  the  palace  and  the  person  of  the 
unfortunate  monaich,  are  recorded  in  dif- 
ferent works  within  the  reach  of  every 
person  who  desires  to  be  acquainted  with 
the  frightful  details.  About  sixty  who 
were  not  killed  at  the  moment,  were  taken 
prisoners,  and  conducted  to  the  town-hall 
of  the  commons  of  Paris,  for  summary 
trial :  but  the  ferocious 'females  who  mingled 
in  the  mobs  of  those  terrifying  times,  rushed 
in  bodies  to  the  place,  with  cries  of  ven- 
geance, and  the  unhappy  men  were  de- 
livered up  to  their  fury,  and  every  indi- 
vidual was  murdered  on  the  spot. 


255 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


&arritfe 

No.  VI. 

[From  the  "Chaste  Maid  in  Cheapside," 
a  Comedy,  by  Thomas  Middleton, 
1620.] 

Citizen   to  a   Knight  complimenting  his 
Daughter. 

Pisb,  stop  your  words,  good  Knight,  'twill  make  her 

blush  else, 
Which  are  wound  too  high  for  the  Daughters  of  the 

Freedom ; 

Honour,  and  Faithful  Servant  I  they  are  compliments 
For  the  worthy  Ladies  of  White  Hall  or  Greenwich  ; 
^v'u  plain,  sufficient,  subsidy  words  serve  us,  Sir. 


Master  Allwit  (a  Witter)  describes  his 
contentment. 

I  am  like  a  man 

Finding  a  table  furnish'd  to  his  hand, 
CAs  mine  is  still  for  me),  prays  for  the  Founder, 
Bless  the  Right  worshipful,  the  good  Founder's  life  : 
I  thank  him,  he  *  has  maintain'd  my  house  these  ten 

years ; 

Not  only  keeps  my  Wife,  but  he  keeps  me. 
He  gets  me  all  my  children,  and  pays  the  nurse 
Weekly  or  monthly,  puts  me  to  nothing, 
Rent,  nor  Church  dues,  not  so  much  as  the  Scavenger ; 
The  happiest  state  that  ever  man  was  born  to. 
I  walk  out  in  a  morning,  come  to  breakfast, 
Find  excellent  cheer,  a  good  fire  in  winter ; 
Look  in  my  coal-house,  about  Midsummer  eve. 
That's  full,  five  or  six  chaldron  new  laid  up  ; 
Look  in  my  back  yard,  I  shall  find  a  steeple 
Made  up  with  Kentish  faggots,  which  o'erlooks 
The  water-house  and  the  windmills.    I  say  nothing, 
Bat  smile,  and  pin  the  door.    When  she  lies  in, 
(As  now  she's  even  npon  the  point  of  grunting), 
A  Lady  lies  not  in  like  her;  there's  her  imbossings, 
Embroiderings,  spanglings,  and  I  know  not  what, 
As  if  she  lay  with  all  the  gaudy  shops 
In  Gresham'a  Burse  about  her  ;  then  her  restoratives, 
Able  to  set  up  a  young  'Pothecary, 
And  riphly  store  the  Foreman  of  a  Drug  shop ; 
Her  sugars  by  whole  loaves,  her  wines  by  rundlets, 
I  see  these  things,  bat  like  a  happy  man 
I  pay  for  none  at  all,  yet  fools  think  it  mine ; 
I  have  the  name,  and  in  his  gold  1  shine  : 
And  where  some  merchants  would  in  soul  kiss  hell. 
To  buy  a  paradise  for  their  wives,  and  dye 
Their  conscience  in  the  blood  of  prodigal  heirs, 
To  deok  their  Night-piece  ;  yet,  all  this  being  done, 
Eaten  with  jealousy  to  the  inmost  bone ; 
These  torments  stand  I  freed  of.    1  am  as  cl»ar 
From  jealonsy  of  »  wife,  as  from  the  charge. 
O  two  miiaculons  blessings  1  'tis  the  Knight, 
Has  ta'en  that  labour  quite  out  of  my  hands. 


I  may  sit  still,  and  play  ;  he's  jealous  for  me, 
Watches  her  steps,  sets  spies.     I  live  at  ease. 
He  has  both  the  cost  and  torment ;  when  the  string 
Of  his  heart  frets,  I  feed  fat,  laugh,  or  sing. 

I'll  go  bid  Gossips  *  presently  myself, 
That's  all  the  work  I'll  do ;  nor  need  I  stir, 
But  that  it  is  my  pleasure  to  walk  forth 
And  air  myself  a  little ;  I  am  tyed 
To  nothing  in  this  business  ;  what  I  do 
Is  merely  recreation,  not  constraint. 


Rescue  from  Bailiffs  by  the  Watermen. 


I  had  been  taken  by  eight  Serjeants, 


But  for  the  honest  Watermen,  I  am  bound  to  'em. 
They  are  the  most  requiteful'st  people  living  ; 
For,  as  they  get  their  means  by  Gentlemen, 
They're  still  the  forward'st  to  help  Gentlemen. 
You  heard  how  one  'scaped  out  of  the  Blackfriars  f 
But  a  while  since  from  two  or  three  varlets, 
Came  into  the  house  with  all  their  rapiers  drawn, 
As  if  they'd  dance  the  sword-dance  on  the  stage, 
With  candles  in  their  hands,  like  Chandlers'  Ghosts  I 
Whilst  the  poor  Gentleman,  so  pursued  and  banded. 
Was  by  an  honest  pair  of  oars  safe  landed. 

[From  "  London  Chanticleers,"  a  rude 
Sketch  of  a  Play,  printed  1659,  but 
evidently  much  older.] 

Song  in  praise  of  Ale. 

1. 

Submit,  Bunch  of  Grapes, 
To  the  strong  Barley  ear ; 
The  weak  Wine  no  longer 
The  laurel  shall  wear. 

2. 

Sack,  and  all  drinks  else, 
Desist  from  the  strife ; 
Ale's  the  only  Aqua  Vitae, 
And  liquor  of  life. 

3. 

Then  come,  my  boon  fellows, 
Let's  drink  it  around ; 
It  keeps  us  from  grave, 
Though  it  lays  us  on  ground. 

4. 

Ale's  a  Physician, 
No  Mountebank  Bragger ; 
Can  cure  the  chill  Ague, 
Though  it  be  with  the  Stagger. 

5. 

Ale's  a  strong  Wrestler, 
Flings  all  it  hath  met ; 
And  makes  the  ground  slippery, 
Though  it  be  not  wet. 


•  A  rich  old  Knight;  who  keeps  Allwit's  Wif«. 


*  To  his  Wife's  Lying-in. 
t  Alsatia,  I  presume. 


257 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


258 


Ale  is  both  Ceres, 
And  good  Neptune  too  ; 
Ale's  froth  was  the  sea. 
From  which  Venus  gr«w. 

7. 

Ale  is  immortal ; 
And  be  there  no  stop* 
In  bonny  lads'  quaffing, 
Can  live  without  hops.* 


Then  come,  my  boon  fellows, 
Let's  driuk  it  around  ; 
It  keeps  us  from  grave, 
Though  it  lays  us  on  ground. 


C.  L. 


2Brama. 


.CHARLOTTE  CHARKE. 

The  novel  called  "  Mr.  Dumont,"  by 
this  unfortunate  woman,  was  published  in 
the  year  1755  in  one  volume,  twelves,  by 
H.  Slater,  of  Drury-lane,  who  may  be  pre- 
sumed to  have  been  the  bookseller  that 
accompanied  Mr.  Whyte  to  her  miserable 
dwelling,  for  the  purpose  of  hearing  her 
read  the  manuscript.  Since  the  account  at 
col.  125,  I  met  with  an  advertisement  of 
November,  1742,  from  whence  it  appears 
that  she  and  her  daughter,  "Miss  Charke," 
performed  at  one  of  those  places  of  public 
amusement  at  that  period,  when,  to  evade 
the  law,  under  pretence  of  a  musical  en- 
tertainment, a  play  and  the  usual  after- 
piece were  frequently  represented  by  way 
of  divertisement,  although  they  constituted 
the  sole  attraction.  The  notice  referred  to 
is  altogether  a  curiosity  :  it  runs  thus  :  — 

"  For  the  Benefit  of  a  Person  who  has  a 
mind  to  get  Money  :  AT  THE  NEW  THEATRE 
in  James-street  near  the  Haymarket,  on 
Monday  next,  will  be  performed  a  CONCERT 
of  vocal  and  instrumental  Musick,  divided 
into  Two  Parts.  Boxes  3s.  Pit  2s.  Galleryl*. 
Between  the  two  parts  of  the  Concert  will 
be  performed  a  Tragedy,  call'd  THE  FATAL 
CURIOSITY,  written  "by  the  late  Mr.  Lillo, 
author  of  George  Barnwell.  The  part  of 
Mrs.  Wilmot  by  Mrs.  CHARKE  (who  ori- 
ginally performed  it  at  the  Haymarket;) 
The  rest  of  the  parts  by  a  Set  of  People 
who  will  perform  as  well  as  they  can,  if 
not  as  well  as  they  wou'd,  and  the  best  can 


•  The  original  distinction  of  Beer  from  the  old  Drink 
of  our  Forefathers,  which  was  made  without  that  in- 
gredient 


do  no  more.  With  variety  of  Entertainments, 
viz.  Act  I.  A  Preamble  on  the  Kettle  drums, 
by  Mr.  Job  Baker,  particularly,  Larry 
Orovy,  accompanied  with  French  Horns. 
Act  II.  A  new  Peasant  Dance  by  Mons. 
Chemont  and  Madem  Peran,  just  arriv'd 
piping  hot  from  the  Opera  at  Paris.  To 
which  will  be  added  a  Ballad-Opera,  call'd 
THE  DEVIL  TO  PAY  ;  The  part  of  Nell  by 
Miss  CHARKE  ivho  performed  Princess 
Elizabeth  at  Southwark.  Servants  will  be 
allow'd  to  keep  places  on  the  stage — Par- 
ticular care  will  be  taken  to  perform  with 
the  utmost  decency,  and  to  prevent  mis- 
takes, the  Bills  for  the  day  will  be  blue  and 
black,  &c."  * 


THE  BLOODY  HAND. 
For  the  Table  Book, 

One  December  evening,  the  year  before 
last,  returning  to  T — ,  in  the  northern  ex- 
tremity of  W — ,  in  a  drisling  rain,  as  I 
approached  the  second  milestone,  I  observ- 
ed two  men,  an  elder  and  a  younger,  walk- 
ing side  by  side  in  the  horse-road.  The 
elder,  whose  appearance  indicated  that  of  a 
labourer  in  very  comfortable  circumstances, 
was  in  the  path  directly  in  front  of  my 
horse,  and  seemed  to  have  some  intention 
of  stopping  me ;  on  my  advancing,  how- 
ever, he  quietly  withdrew  from  the  middle 
of  the  road  to  the  side  of  it,  but  kept  his 
eyes  firmly  fixed  on  me,  which  caused  also, 
on  my  part,  a  particular  attention  to  him. 
He  then  accosted  me,  "  Sir,  I  beg  your 
pardon." — "  For  what,  my  man  ?" — "  For 
speaking  to  you,  sir." — "  What  have  you 
said,  then  ?" — "  I  want  to  know  the  way  to 
S — ." — "  Pass  on  beyond  those  trees,  and 
you  will  see  the  spire  before  you." — •"  How 
far  is  it  off,  sir  ?" — "  Less  than  two  miles." 
— "  Do  you  know  it,  sir?" — "  I  was  there 
twenty  minutes  ago." — "  Do  you  know  the 
gentleman  there,  sir,  that  wants  a  man  to 
go  under  ground  for  him  ?" — "  For  what 
purpose  ?"  (imagining,  from  the  direction 
in  which  I  met  the  man,  that  he  came  from 
the  mining  districts  of  S — ,  I  expected  that 
his  object  was  to  explore  the  neighbour- 
hood for  coals.)  His  answer  immediately 
turned  the  whole  train  of  my  ideas.  "  To 
go  under  ground  for  him,  to  take  on'  the 
bloody  hand  from  his  carriage." — "  And 
what  is  that  to  be  done  for?" — "  For  a 
thousand  pounds,  sir.  Have  you  not  heard 
any  thing  of  it,  sir?" — "  Not  a  word." — 
«  Well,  sir,  I  was  told  that  the  gentleman 
lives  here,  at  S — ,  at  the  hall,  and  that  he 
offers  a  thousand  pounds  to  any  man  that 


259 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


will  take  off  the  bloody  hand  from  his  car- 
riage."— "  I  can  assure  you  this  is  the  first 
word  I  have  heard  on  the  subject." — "  Well, 
sir,  I  have  been  told  so  ;''  and  then,  taking 
off  his  hat,  he  wished  me  a  good  morning. 

I  rode  slowly  on,  but  very  suddenly 
heard  a  loud  call,  "  Stop,  sir,  stop !"  I 
turned  my  horse,  and  saw  the  man,  who 
had,  I  imagined,  held  a  short  parley  with 
his  companion,  just  leaving  him,  and  run- 
ning towards  me,  and  calling  out,  "  Stop, 
sir."  Not  quite  knowing  what  to  make  of 
this  extraordinary  accost  and  vehement 
call,  I  changed  a  stout  stick  in  my  left 
hand  to  my  right  hand,  elevated  it,  gathered 
up  the  reins  in  my  left,  and  trotted  my 
horse  towards  him ;  he  then  walked  to  the 
side  of  the  road,  and  took  off  his  hat,  and 
said,  "  Sir,  I  am  told  that  if  the  gentleman 
can  get  a  man  to  go  under  ground  for  him, 
for  seven  years,  and  never  see  the  light, 
and  let  his  nails,  and  his  hair,  and  his 
beard  grow  all  that  time,  that  the  king  will 
then  take  off  the  bloody  hand  from  his  car- 
riage.''— "  Which  then  is  the  man  who 
offers  to  do  this  ?  is  it  you,  or  your  com- 
panion ?" — "  I  am  the  man,  sir." — "  O,  you 
intend  to  undertake  to  do  this  ? ' — "  Yes, 
sir." — "  Then  all  that  I  can  say  is,  that  I 
now  hear  the  first  word  of  it  from  yourself." 
At  this  time  the  rain  had  considerably  in- 
creased, I  therefore  wished  the  man  a  good 
morning,  and  left  him. 

I  had  not,  however,  rode  above  a  hundred 
and  fifty  yards  before  an  idea  struck  me, 
that  it  would  be  an  act  of  kindness  to  ad- 
vise the  poor  man  to  go  no  further  on  such 
a  strange  pursuit ;  but,  though  I  galloped 
after  them  on  the  way  I  had  originally 
directed  them,  and  in  a  few  minutes  saw 
two  persons,  who  must  have  met  them,  had 
they  continued  their  route  to  S — ,  I  could 
neither  hear  any  thing  of  them,  nor  see 
them,  in  any  situation  which  I  could  ima- 
gine that  they  might  have  taken  to  as  a 
shelter  from  the  heavy  rain.  1  thus  lost  an 
opportunity  of  endeavouring  to  gain,  from 
the  greatest  depths  of  ignorance,  many 
points  of  inquiry  I  had  arranged  in  my  own 
mind,  in  order  to  obtain  a  developement 
of  the  extraordinary  idea  and  unfounded 
offer,  on  which  t'he  poor  fellow  appeared  to 
have  so  strongly  set  his  mind. 

On  further  inquiry  into  the  origin  of  this 
strange  notion  of  the  bloody  hand  in  he- 
raldry, and  why  the  badge  of  honour  next 
to  nobility,  and  perpetuated  from  the  an- 
cient kings  of  Ulster,  should  fall,  in  two 
centuries,  into  indelible  disgrace,  I  find 
myself  in  darkness  equal  to  that  of  the 
anticipated  cavern  of  the  poor  deluded 


man,  and  hitherto  without  an  aid  superic? 
to  himself.  Under  these  circumstances, 
present  the  inquiry  to  you,  and  shall  be 
among  many  others,  greatly  gratified  to  se* 
it  set  in  a  clear  light  by  yourself,  or  some 
friendly  correspondent. 

I  am,  sir, 
1827.  . 


ORGANS  IN  CHURCHES, 

THE  TEMPLE  CHURCH. 

After  the  Restoration,  the  number  of 
workmen  in  England  being  found  too  few 
to  answer  the  demand  for  organs,  it  was 
thought  expedient  to  make  offers  of  encou- 
ragement for  foreigners  to  come  and  settle 
here ;  these  brought  over  Mr.  Bernard 

Schmidt   and Harris ;  the  former, 

for  his  excellence  in  his  art,  deserves  to  live 
in  the  remembrance  of  all  who  are  friends 
to  it. 

Bernard  Schmidt,  or,  as  we  pronounce 
the  name,  Smith,  was  a  native  of  Germany, 
but  of  what  city  or  province  in  particular 
is  not  known.  He  brought  with  him  two 
nephews,  the  one  named  Gerard,  the  other 
Bernard ;  to  distinguish  him  from  these, 
the  elder  had  the  appellation  of  father 
Smith.  Immediately  upon  their  arrival, 
Smith  was  employed  to  build  an  organ  for 
the  royal  chapel  at  Whitehall,  but,  as  it 
was  built  in  great  haste,  it  did  not  answer 
the  expectations  of  those  who  were  judges 
of  his  abilities.  He  had  been  but  a  few 
months  here  before  Harris  arrived  from 
France,  with  his  son  Renatus,  who  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  business  of  organ- 
making  under  him ;  they  met  with  little 
encouragement,  for  Dallans  and  Smith  had 
all  the  business  of  the  kingdom  :  but,  upon 
the  decease  of  Dallans  in  1672,  a  competi- 
tion arose  between  these  two  foreigners, 
which  was  attended  with  some  remarkable 
circumstances.  The  elder  Harris  was  in 
no  degree  a  match  for  Smith,  but  his  son 
Renatus  was  a  young  man  of  ingenuity 
and  perseverance,  and  the  contest  between 
Smith  and  the  younger  Harris  was  carried 
on  with  great  spirit.  Each  had  his  friends 
and  supporters,  and  the  point  of  preference 
between  them  was  hardly  determined  by 
that  exquisite  piece  of  workmanship  by 
Smith,  the  organ  now  standing  in  the  Tem- 
ple church;  of  the  building  whereof,  the 
following  is  the  history. 

On  the  decease  of  Dallans  and  the  eldei 
Harris,  Renatus  Harris  and  father  Srnitt 


261 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


232 


becair.e  great  rivals  in  their  employment, 
and  there  were  several  trials  of  skill  betwixt 
them ;  but  the  famous  contest  was  at  the 
Temple  church,  where  a  new  organ  was 
going  to  be  erected  towards  the  latter 
end  of  king  Charles  II. 's  time.  Both 
made  friends  for  that  employment ;  and  as 
the  society  could  not  agree  about  who 
should  be  the  man,  the  master  of  the  Temple 
and  the  benchers  proposed  that  each  should 
set  up  an  organ  on  each  side  of  the  church. 
In  about  half  or  three  quarters  of  a  year 
this  was  done:  Dr.  Blow,  and  Purcell,  who 
was  then  in  his  prime,  showed  and  played 
father  Smith's  organ  on  appointed  days  to 
a  numerous  audience ;  and,  till  the  other 
was  heard,  everybody  believed  that  father 
Smith  would  certainly  carry  it. 

Harris  brought  Lully,  organist  to  queen 
Catharine,  a  very  eminent  master,  to  touch 
his  organ.  This  rendered  Harris's  organ 
popular,  and  the  organs  continued  to  vie 
with  one  another  near  a  twelvemonth. 

Harris  then  challenged  father  Smith  to 
make  additional  stops  against  a  set  time ; 
these  were  the  vox  humane,  the  cremona 
or  violin  -stop,  the  double  courtel  or  bass 
flute,  with  some  others. 

These  stops,  as  being  newly  invented, 
gave  great  delight  and  satisfaction  to  a  nu- 
merous audience;  and  were  so  well  imitated 
on  both  sides,  that  it  was  hard  to  adjudge  the 
advantage  to  either  :  at  last  it  was  left  to 
the  lord  chief  justice  Jeffries,  who  was  of 
that  house ;  and  he  put  an  end  to  the  con- 
troversy by  pitching  upon  father  Smith's 
organ ;  and  Harris's  organ  being  taken 
away  without  loss  of  reputation,  Smith's 
remains  to  this  day. 

Now  began  the  setting  up  of  organs  in 
the  chiefest  parishes  of  the  city  of  London, 
where,  for  the  most  part,  Harris  had  the 
advantage  of  father  Smith,  making  two 
perhaps  to  his  one ;  among  them  some  are 
very  eminent,  viz.  the  organ  at  St.  Bride's, 
St.  Lawrence  near  Guildhall,  St.  Mary  Axe, 
&c. 

Notwithstanding  Harris's  success,  Smith 
was  considered  an  able  and  ingenious 
workman ;  and,  in  consequence  of  this 
character,  he  was  employed  to  build  an 
organ  for  the  cathedral  of  St.  Paul.  The 
organs  made  by  him,  though  in  respect  of 
the  workmanship  they  are  inferior  to  those 
of  Harris,  and  even  of  Dallans,  are  yet 
justly  admired ;  and,  for  the  fineness  of 
their  tone,  have  never  yet  been  equalled. 

Harris's  organ,  rejected  from  the  Temple 
by  judge  Jeffries,  was  afterwards  purchased 
for  the  cathedral  of  Christ-church,  at  Dub- 
lin, and  set  up  there.  Towards  the  close 


of  George  ll.'s  reign,  Mr.  Byfield  was 
sent  for  from  England  to  repair  it,  which 
he  objected  to,  and  prevailed  on  the  chapter 
to  have  a  new  one  made  by  himself,  he  al- 
lowing for  the  old  one  in  exchange.  When 
he  had  got  it,  he  would  have  treated  with 
the  parishioners  of  Lynn,  in  Norfolk,  for 
the  sale  of  it:  but  they,  disdaining  the 
offer  of  a  second-hand  instrument,  refused 
to  purchase  it,  and  employed  Snetzler  to 
build  them  a  new  one,  for  which  they  paid 
him  seven  hundred  pounds.  Byfield  dying, 
his  widow  sold  Harris's  organ  to  the  parish 
of  Wolverhampton  for  five  hundred  pounds, 
and  there  it  remains  to  this  day.  An  emi- 
nent master,  who  was  requested  by  the 
churchwardens  of  Wolverhampton  to  give 
his  opinion  of  this  instrument,  declared  it 
to  be  the  best  modern  organ  he  had  ever 
touched.* 


MISERIES  OF  TRAVELLING. 

STEAM    versus    COACH. 

For  the  Table  Book. 

"  Now  there  is  nothing  gives  a  man  such  spiritf. 
Leavening  his  blood  as  Cayenne  doth  a  curry, 

As  going  at  full  speed " 

Don  Juan,    .  xO.  v.  72. 

If  the  number  of  persons  who  have  been 
killed,  maimed,  and  disfigured  for  life,  in 
consequence  of  stage-coach  mishaps,  could 
be  ascertained,  since  the  first  establish- 
ment of  steam-packets  in  this  country  ' 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  number  who 
have  been  similarly  unfortunate  by  steam- 
boilers  bursting,  we  should  find  that  the 
stage-coach  proportion  would  be  in  the 
ratio  of  ten  to  one  !  A  solitary  "  blow  up" 
of  a  steam-packet  is  "  noised  and  pro- 
claimed "  from  the  Land's  End  to  the  other 
extremity  of  the  island  ;  while  hundreds  of 
coach-accidents,  and  many  of  them  fatal, 
occur,  which  are  never  heard  of  beyond  the 
village,  near  to  which  the  casualty  takes 
place,  or  the  neighbouring  ale-house. 
These  affairs  it  is  to  the  interest  of  the 
proprietors  to  "  hush  up,"  by  means  of  a 
gratuity  to  the  injured,  rather  than  have 
their  property  ruined  by  an  exposure  in  a 
court  of  justice.  Should  a  poor  man  have 
a  leg  or  an  arm  broken,  through  the  care- 
lessness of  a  drunken  coachman,  his  po- 
verty prevents  his  having  recourse  to  law. 
Justice,  in  these  cases,  nine  times  in 
ten,  is  entirely  out  of  the  question,  and  an 
arrangement,  between  him  and  the  pro- 
prietors, is  easily  effected  ;  the  unfortunate 

•  Hawkiu*. 


263 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


264 


fellow  rather  receiving  fifty  or  a  hundred 
pounds  "  hush  money,"  than  bring  his 
action,  when,  perhaps,  from  some  technical 
informality  in  the  proceedings,  (should  he 
find  a  lawyer  willing  to  act  for  him,  being 
poor,}  ne  would  be  nonsuited,  with  all  the 
costs  of  both  parties  on  his  own  shoulders, 
and  be,  moreover,  ruined  for  ever,  in  both 
purse  and  person.  These  remarks  were 
suggested  by  reading  an  American  work, 
some  time  since,  on  the  above  subject, 
from  which  I  have  extracted  the  following 

Stage-coach  Adventures. 

INSIDE. — Crammed  full  of  passengers — 
three  fat,  fusty,  old  men — a  young  mother 
and  sick  child — a  cross  old  maid— a  poll- 
parrot — a  bag  of  red  herrings — double- 
barreled  gun,  (which  you  are  afraid  is 
loaded) — and  a  snarling  lap-dog,  in  addi- 
tion to  yourself — awaking  out  of  a  sound 
nap,  with  the  cramp  in  one  leg,  and  the 
other  in  a  lady's  band-box — pay  the  damage 
(four  or  five  shillings)  for  "  gallantry's 
sake" — getting  out  in  the  dark,  at  the 
half-way-house,  in  the  hurry  stepping  into 
the  return  coach,  and  finding  yourself  the 
next  morning  at  the  very  spot  you  had 
started  from  the  evening  before — not  a 
breath  of  air — asthmatic  old  man,  and  child 
with  the  measles — windows  closed  in  con- 
sequence— unpleasant  smell — shoes  filled 
with  warm  water — look  up  and  find  it's  the 
child — obliged  to  bear  it — no  appeal — shut 
your  eyes,  and  scold  the  dog — pretend 
sleep,  and  pinch  the  child — mistake — 
pinch  the  dog,  and  get  bit — execrate  the 
child  in  return — black  looks — "  no  gentle- 
man " — pay  the  coachman,  and  drop  a 
piece  of  gold  in  the  straw — not  to  be 
found — fell  through  a  crevice — coachman 
says,  "he'll  find  it"  —  can't  —  get  out 
yourself — gone — picked  up  by  the  'ostler. — 
No  time  for  "  blowing  up  " — coach  off  for 
next  stage — lose  your  money — get  in — 
lose  your  seat — stuck  in  the  middle — get 
laughed  at — lose  your  temper — turn  sulky, 
and  turned  over  in  a  horse-pond. 

OUTSIDE. — Your  eye  cut  out  by  the  lash 
of  a  clumsy  coachman's  whip — hat  blown 
off,  into  a  pond,  by  a  sudden  gust  of  wind 
— seated  between  two  apprehended  mur- 
derers, and  a  noted  sheep-stealer  in  irons, 
who  are  being  conveyed  to  gaol — a  drunken 
'ellow,  half  asleep,  falls  off  the  coach,  and, 
in  attempting  to  save  himself,  drags  you 
along  with  him  into  the  mud — musical 
guard,  and  driver,  "  horn  mad  " — turned 
over-- -one  leg  under  a  bale  of  cotton,  the 
other  under  the  coach — hands  in  breeches 
poc?;sts — head  in  a  hamper  of  wine — lots 


of  broken  bottles  versus  broken  heads — cut 
and  run — send  for  surgeon — wounds  dress- 
ed— lotion  and  lint,  four  dollars — take 
post-chaise — get  home — lay  down,  and 
laid  up. 

INSIDE  AND  OUTSIDE. — Drunken  coach- 
man— horse  sprawling — wheel  off — pole 
breaking,  down  hill — axle-tree  splitting — 
coach  overturning — winter,  and  buried  in 
the  snow — one  eye  poked  out  with  an  um- 
brella, the  other  cut  open  by  the  broken 
window — reins  breaking — .impudent  guard 
— hurried  at  meals — imposition  of  inn- 
keepers— five  minutes  and  a  half  to  swallow 
three  and  sixpennyworth  of  vile  meat — 
waiter  a  rogue — "  Like  master,  like  man  " 
— half  a  bellyfull,  and  frozen  to  death — in- 
ternal grumblings  and  outward  complaints 
— no  redress — walk  forward  while  the 
horses  are  changing — take  the  wrong  turn- 
ing— lose  yourself  and  lose  the  coach — 
good-by  to  portmanteau — curse  your  ill 
luck — wander  about  in  the  dark  and  find 
the  inn  at  last — get  upon  the  next  coach 
going  the  same  road — stop  at  the  next  inn — 
brandy  and  water,  hot,  to  keep  you  in 
spirits — warm  fire — pleasant  company — 
heard  the  guard  cry  "  All  right?" — run  out, 
just  in  time  to  sing  out  "  I'm  left,"  as 
the  coach  turns  the  corner — after  it  "  full 
tear  " — come  up  with  it,  at  the  end  of  a 
mile — get  up  "  all  in  a  blowze  " — catch 
cold — sore  throat — inflammation — doctor 
— warm  bath — fever — DIE. 

GASPARD. 


THE  UGLY  CLUB. 
From  a  New  York  Paper. 

THE  MEMBERS  of  the  UGLY  CLUB  are 
requested  to  attend  a  special  meeting  at 
UGLY-HALL,  4,  Wall  street,  on  Monday- 
evening  next,  at  half- past  seven  o'clock 
precisely,  to  take  into  consideration  the 
propriety  of  offering  to  the  committee  of 
defence  the  services  of  their  ugly  carcasses, 
firm  hearts,  sturdy  bodies,  and  unblistered 
hands. — His  UGLINESS  being  absent,  this 
meeting  is  called  by  order  of 

His  HOMELINESS. 
Aug.  13. 


SCIPIO'S  SHIELD. 

In  1656,  a  fisherman  on  the  banks  of  the 
Rhone,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Avignon, 


26A 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


266 


was  considerably  obstructed  in  his  work  by 
some  heavy  body,  which  he  feared  would 
injure  the  net ;  but  by  proceeding  slowly 
and  cautiously,  he  drew  it  ashore  untorn, 
and  found  that  it  contained  a  round  sub- 
stance, in  the  shape  of  a  large  plate  or 
dish,  thickly  encrusted  with  a  coat  of  hard- 
ened mud  ;  the  dark  colour  of  the  metal 
beneath  induced  him  to  consider  it  as  iron. 
A  silversmith,  accidentally  present,  encou- 
raged the  mistake,  and,  after  a  few  affected 
difficulties  and  demurs,  bought  it  for  a 
trifling  sum,  immediately  carried  it  home, 
and,  after  carefully  cleaning  and  polishing 
his  purchase,  it  proved  to  be  of  pure  silver, 
perfectly  round,  more  than  two  feet  in  dia- 
meter, and  weighing  upwards  of  twenty 
pounds.  Fearing  that  so  massy  and  valua- 
ble a  piece  of  plate,  offered  for  sale  at  one 
time  and  at  one  place,  might  produce  sus- 
picion and  inquiry,  he  immediately,  without 
waiting  to  examine  its  beauties,  divided  it 
into  four  equal  parts,  each  of  which  he  dis- 
posed of,  at  different  and  distant  places. 

One  of  the  pieces  had  been  sold,  at 
Lyons,  to  Mr.  Mey,  a  wealthy  merchant  of 
that  city,  and  a  well-educated  man,  who 
directly  saw  its  value,  and  after  great  pains 
and  expense,  procured  the  other  three  frag- 
ments, had  them  nicely  rejoined,  and  the 
treasure  was  finally  placed  in  the  cabinet  of 
<he  king  of  France. 

This  relic  of  antiquity,  no  less  re- 
markable for  the  beauty  of  its  workman- 
ship, than  for  having  been  buried  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Rhone  more  than  two  thou- 
sand years,  was  a  votive  shield,  presented 
to  Scipio,  as  a  monument  of  gratitude  and 
affection,  by  the  inhabitants  of  Carthago 
Nova,  now  the  city  of  Carthagena,  for  his 
generosity  and  self-denial,  in  delivering  one 
of  his  captives,  a  beautiful  virgin,  to  her 
original  lover.  This  act,  so  honourable  to 
the  Roman  general,  who  was  then  in  the 
prime  vigour  of  manhood,  is  represented 
on  the  shield,  and  an  engraving  from  it 
may  be  seen  in  the  curious  and  valuable 
work  of  Mr.  Spon. 


The  story  of  "  Scipio's  chastity,"  which 
this  shield  commemorates,  is  related  by 
Livy  to  the  following  effect. — The  wife  of 
the  conquered  king,  falling  at  the  general's 
feet,  earnestly  entreated  that  the  female 
captives  might  be  protected  from  injury 
and  insult. — Scipio  assured  her,  that  she 
should  have  no  reason  to  complain. 

"  For  my  own  part,"  replied  the  queen, 
"  my  age  and  infirmities  almost  ensure  me 


against  dishonour,  but  when  I  consider  the 
age  and  complexion  of  my  fellow  captives, 
(pointing  to  a  crowd  of  females,)  I  feel 
considerable  uneasiness." 

"  Such  crimes,"  replied  Scipio,  "  are 
neither  perpetrated  nor  permitted  by  the 
Roman  people  ;  but  if  it  were  not  so,  the 
anxiety  you  discover,  under  your  present 
calamities,  to  preserve  their  chastity,  would 
be  a  sufficient  protection  :"  he  then  gave  the 
necessary  orders. 

The  soldiers  soon  after  brought  him, 
what  they  considered  as  a  rich  prize,  a  vir- 
gin of  distinction,  young,  and  of  such  ex- 
traordinary beauty,  as  to  attract  the  notice 
and  admiration  of  all  who  beheld  her. 
Scipio  found  that  she  had  been  betrothed, 
in  happier  days,  to  Allucius,  a  young  Spa- 
nish prince,  who  was  himself  a  captive. 
Without  a  moment's  delay,  the  conqueror 
sent  for  her  parents  and  lover,  and  addressed 
the  latter  in  the  following  words  : 

"  The  maid  to  whom  thou  wert  shortly 
to  have  been  married  has  been  taken  priso- 
ner :  from  the  soldiers  who  brought  her  to 
me,  I  understand  that  thy  affections  are 
fixed  upon  her,  and  indeed  her  beauty  con- 
firms the  report.  She  is  worthy  of  thy 
love ;  nor  would  I  hesitate,  but  for  the  stern 
laws  of  duty  and  honour,  to  offer  her  my 
hand  and  heart.  I  return  her  to  thee,  not 
only  inviolate,  but  untouched,  and  almost 
unseen ;  for  I  scarcely  ventured  to  gaze  on 
such  perfection  ;  accept  her  as  a  gift  worthy 
receiving.  The  only  condition,  the  only 
return  I  ask,  is,  that  thou  wilt  be  a  friend 
to  the  Roman  people." 

The  young  prince  in  a  transport  of  de- 
light, and  scarcely  able  to  believe  what  he 
saw  and  heard,  pressed  the  hand  of  Scipio 
to  his  heart,  and  implored  ten  thousand 
blessings  on  his  head.  The  parents  of  the 
happy  bridegroom  had  brought  a  large  sum 
of  money,  as  the  price  of  her  redemption  ; 
Scipio  ordered  it  to  be  placed  on  the 
ground,  and  telling  Allucius  that  he  insisted 
on  his  accepting  it  as  a  nuptial  gift  directed 
it  to  be  carried  to  his  tent. 

The  happy  pair  returned  home,  repeating 
the  praises  of  Scipio  to  every  one,  calling 
him  a  godlike  youth,  as  matchless  in  the 
success  of  his  arms,  as  he  was  unrivalled 
in  the  beneficent  use  he  made  of  his  victo- 
ries. 

Though  the  story  is  known  to  most  read- 
ers, its  relation,  in  connection  with  the 
discovery  of  the  valuable  present  from  the 
conquered  city  to  its  illustrious  victor, 
seemed  almost  indispensable,  and  perhaps 
the  incident  can  scarcely  be  too  fami- 
liar 


THE  TABLE  BOOK, 


$  JBron^e  Antique,  founto  in  tlx  Cfcames, 

IN   DIGGING   FOR  THE  FOUNDATION  OF  NEW  LONDON   BRIDGE,  JANUARY,  1827. 


It  is  presumed  that  this  article,  from  its 
peculiar  curiosity,  will  be  welcomed  by 
every  lover  and  preserver  of  antiquities. 

To  the  Editor. 

Sir, — The  remarkable  vessel  from  which 
this  drawing  is  taken,  was  discovered  a  few 
days  since,  by  a  labourer  employed  in 
sinking  one  of  the  coffer-dams  for  the  new 
London  bridge,  embedded  in  clay,  at  a 
depth  of  about  thirty  feet  from  the  bed  of 
the  river.  It  is  of  bronze,  not  cast,  but  sculp- 
tured, and  is  in  so  perfect  a  state,  that  the 
edges  of  the  different  parts  are  as  sharp  as 
if  the  chisel  had  done  its  office  but  yes- 
terday. The  only  portion  which  has  suf- 
fered decay  is  the  pin  that  attached  the  lid 
to  the  other  part,  which  crumbled  away  as 
soon  as  exposed  to  the  air. 

At  first,  it  was  conjectured  that  this  vessel 
was  used  for  a  lamp ;  but  the  idea  was 
soon  abandoned,  as  there  was  no  part  cal- 
culated to  receive  the  wick  ;  and  the  space 
to  contain  the  oil  was  so  small  that  it 
would  not  have  admitted  of  more  oil  than 
was  sufficient  for  one  hour's  consumption, 
or  two,  at  farthest. 

One  of  the  members  of  the  Antiquarian 
Society  has  given  it  as  his  opinion,  that  it 
w.'i'j  used  for  sacrificial  purposes,  and  in- 
U//.ed  to  receive  wine,  which,  after  being 


put  in,  was  to  be  poured  out  through  the 
mouth,  the  under  jaw  being  evidently  pro- 
truded to  an  unnatural  distance  on  this 
account. 

The  upper  part  of  the  head  forms  the 
lid,  which  the  horns  serve  as  a  handle  to 
raise  ;  the  bottom  of  the  neck  is  flat,  so  thai 
it  may  stand  securely. 

That  it  represents  a  head  of  Bacchus 
will  be  evident,  at  first  glance,  as  it  is  en- 
circled with  a  torse  of  ivy  ;  but  the  features 
being  those  of  a  Nubian,  or  Carthaginian, 
prove  that  it  must  have  an  older  date  than 
that  of  the  Romans,  who  borrowed  their 
first  ideas  of  Bacchic  worship  from  the 
Egyptians.  Perhaps  it  might  have  been 
part  of  their  spoils  from  Carthage  itself, 
and  have  been  highly  valued  on  that  ac- 
count. Certain  however  it  is,  that  this 
curiosity  (destined  for  the  British  Museum) 
must  have  laid  below  the  bosom  of  father 
Thames  for  many  centuries ;  but  how  if 
came  there,  and  at  such  a  depth  in  the 
clay,  we  can  only  guess  at ;  and  till  Jona- 
than Oldbuck,  alias  Monkbarns,  rise  from 
the  dead  to  set  us  right,  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  there  will  be  left  nothing  but  conjec- 
ture respecting  it. 

There  is  some  account,  but  not  very  well 
supported,  of  the  course  of  the  Thames 
having  once  been  diverted :  should  this 


269 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


*ro 


gnotfrer  Wfeto  of  tfoe  same  ancient 


SHOWING   THE  MOUTH,   AND   THE   ORIFICE    AT   THE  TOP  OF  THE  HEAD. 


however  be  true,  it  is  possible  that  the 
head,  of  which  we  are  now  speaking,  might 
have  been  dropped  on  the  then  dry  bottom ; 
the  bed  of  the  river  must,  in  that  case,  have 
been  afterwards  considerably  raised. 

I  remain,  yours,  respectfully, 

M.  BLACKMORE. 
WandswortJi,  Feb.  9,  1827. 

P.  S.  The  Romans  always  represent 
their  satyrs  with  Roman  noses,  and  I  be- 
lieve that  Bacchus  alone  is  crowned  with 
ivy ;  the  fauns  and  the  rest  being  crowned 
with  vine  leaves. 


It  would  be  easy  to  compose  a  disserta- 
tion respecting  Bacchus,  which  would  be 
Highly  interesting,  and  yet  throw  little  light 
on  this  very  remarkable  vessel.  The  rela- 
tion of  any  thing  tending  to  elucidate  its 
probable  age  or  uses  will  be  particularly 
esteemed. 

In  addition  to  the  favour  of  Mr.  Black- 
more's  letter  and  drawing,  he  obligingly 
obtained  the  vessel  itself,  which  being- 
placed  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  S.  Williams,  he 
executed  the  present  engravings  of  the 
exact  size  of  the  original :  it  is,  as  Mr. 
Rlackmore  has  already  mentioned,  in  the 
finest  possible  preservation. 


Probably  the  insertion  of  this  remark- 
able relique  of  antiquity,  turned  up  from 
the  soil  of  our  metropolitan  river,  may 
induce  communications  to  the  Table  Book 
of  similar  discoveries  when  they  take  place. 
At  no  time  were  ancient  remains  more 
regarded  :  and  illustrations  of  old  manners 
and  customs,  of  all  kinds,  are  here  espe- 
cially acceptable. 


JACK  O'  LENT. 

This  was  a  puppet,  formerly  thrown  at, 
in  our  own  country,  during  Lent,  like 
Shrove-cocks.  Thus,  in  "  The  Weakest 
goes  to  the  Wall,"  1600,  we  read  of  "  a 
mere  anatomy,  a  Jack  of  Lent ;"  and  in 
Greene's  "  Tu  quoque,"  of  "  a  boy  that  is 
throwing  at  his  Jick  o'  Lent ;''  and  again, 
in  the  comedy  of  '  Lady  Alimony,"  1659  : 

-"  Throw)  ig  cudgels 


At  Jack  a  Lents  or  Shrove-cocks." 
Also,  in  Ben  Jonson's  "  Tale  of  a  Tub:" 


On  ao  Ash-Wednesday, 


When  thou  didst  stand  six  weeks  the  Jack  o'  Lent, 
For  boys  to  hurl  three  throws  a  penny  at  thee." 

So,  likewise,  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
'  Tamer  tamed  :" 


271 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


272 


'If  I  forfeit, 


Make  me  a  Jack  o'  Lent,  and  break  my  shins 
For  untaggM  points  and  counters." 

Further,  in  Quarles'  "  Shepheard's  Ora- 
cles," 1646,  we  read  : 

"  How  like  a  Jack  a  Lent 

He  stands,  for  boys  to  spend  their  Shrcve-tide  throws, 
Or  like  a  puppet  made  to  frighten  crows."* 

From  the  "Jack  o'  Lent,"  we  derive 
the  familiar  term  among  children,  "  Jack 
o'  Lanthorn," 


£>f)rdbe  Cuesfoap 

AND 

OTrtrmsfoap. 


The  copious  particulars  respecting  these 
festivals,  which  have  been  brought  together 
in  another  place,+  admit  of  some  addition. 

In  France  and  other  parts  of  the  conti- 
nent, the  season  preceding  Lent  is  universal 
carnival.  At  Marseilles,  the  Thursday  be- 
fore Lent  is  called  le  Jeudigras,  and  Shrove 
Tuesday  le  Mardi  gras.  Every  body  joins 
in  masquerading  on  these  nights,  and  both 
streets  and  houses  are  full  of  masks  the 
whole  night  long.  The  god  of  fritters,  if 
such  a  god  there  be,  who  is  worshipped  in 
England  only  on  Shrove  Tuesday,  is  wor- 
shipped in  France  on  both  the  Thursday 
and  Tuesday.  Parties  meet  at  each  other's 
houses  to  a  supper  of  fritters,  and  then  set 
off  masquerading,  which  they  keep  up  to  a 
very  late  hour  in  the  morning. 

On  Ash-Wednesday,  which  has  here 
much  more  the  appearance  of  a  festival 
than  of  a  fast,  there  is  a  ceremony  called 
"  interring  the  carnival.''  A  whimsical 
figure  is  dressed  up  to  represent  the  carni- 
val, which  is  earned  in  the  afternoon  in 
procession  to  Arrens,  a  small  village  on  the 
sea-shore,  about  a  mile  out  of  the  town, 
where  it  is  pulled  to  pieces.  This  ceremony 
is  attended  in  some  way  or  other  by  every 
inhabitant  of  Marseilles,  whether  gentle  or 
simple,  man  or  woman,  boy  or  girl.  The 
very  genteel  company  are  in  carriages, 
which  parade  backwards  and  forwards  upon 
the  road  between  the  town  and  the  village, 
for  two  or  three  hours,  like  the  Sunday  pro- 
cessions in  Hyde-park.  Of  the  rest  of  the 
company,  some  make  parties  to  dine  at 
Arrens,  or  at  the  public-houses  on  the  road  ; 


others  make  water  parties;  but  the  majority 
only  go  and  walk  about,  or  sit  upon  the 
rocks  to  see  and  be  seen.  It  was  one  of 
the  most  delightful  evenings  imaginable ; 
the  air  was  inexpressibly  mild;  the  road  where 
the  carriages  parade  is  about  half  way  up 
the  rocks,  and  this  long  string  of  carriages 
constantly  moving,  the  rocks  filled  with 
thousands  and  thousands  of  spectators,  and 
the  tranquil  sea  gilded  by  the  setting  sun, 
and  strewed  over  with  numberless  little 
barks,  formed  altogether  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  picturesque  scenes  that  could 
be  presented.  We  sat  down  on  a  little 
detached  piece  of  rock  almost  encircled  by 
the  sea,  that  we  might  have  full  enjoyment 
of  it,  and  there  remained  till  some  time 
after  the  glorious  sun  had  disappeared  for 
the  night,  when  we  walked  home  by  a 
lovely  bright  moonlight,  in  a  milder  even- 
ing, though  in  the  month  of  February,  than 
we  often  find  in  England  at  Midsummer.* 


Naogeorgus,  in  the  "  Popish  Kingdome," 
mentions  some  burlesque  scenes  practised 
formerly  on  Ash  Wednesday.  People  went 
about  in  mid-day  with  lanterns  in  their 
hands,  looking  after  the  feast  days  which 
they  had  lost  on  this  the  first  day  of  the 
Lent  fast.  Some  carried  herrings  on  a  pole, 
crying  "  Herrings,  herrings,  stinking  her- 
rings !  no  more  puddings  !" 

And  hereto  joyne  they  foolish  playes, 
and  doltish  doggrel  rimes, 

And  what  beside  they  can  invent. 
belonging  to  the  times. 

Others,  at  the  head  of  a  procession,  car- 
ried a  fellow  upon  staves,  or  "  stangs,"  to 
some  near  pond  or  running  stream,  and 
there  plunged  him  in,  to  wash  away  what 
of  feasting-time  might  be  in  him.  Some 
got  boys  to  accompany  them  through  the 
town  singing,  and  with  minstrels  playing, 
entered  the  houses,  and  seizing  young  girls 
harnessed  them  to  a  plough ;  one  man  held 
the  handles,  another  drove  them  with  a 
whip,  a  minstrel  sung  drunken  songs,  and 
a  fellow  followed,  flinging  sand  or  ashes  as 
if  he  had  been  sowing,  and  then  they  drovw 

'  both  plough  and  maydens  through 

some  pond  or  river  small, 
And  dabbled  all  with  durt,  and  wringing 

wett  as  they  may  bee 
To  supper  calle,  and  after  that 

to  daunsing  lustilee. 


*  Brand's  Popular  Antiquities. 
t  The  Eoery-Day  Book 


*  Miss  Plutnptr*. 


2T3 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


274 


CARNIVAL  IN  SPAIN. 

"  Carnival,"  properly  so  called,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Blanco  White,  is  limited  to 
Quinquagesima  Sunday  ,and  the  two  follow- 
ing days,  a  period  which  the  lower  classes 
pass  in  drinking  and  rioting  in  those  streets 
where  the  meaner  sort  of  houses  abound, 
and  especially  in  the  vicinity  of  the  large 
courts,  or  halls,  called  Corrales,  surrounded 
with  small  rooms  or  cells,  where  numbers 
of  the  poorest  inhabitants  live  in  filth, 
misery,  and  debauch.  Before  these  horrible 
places,  are  seen  crowds  of  men,  women, 
and  children,  singing,  dancing,  drinking, 
and  pursuing  each  other  with  handfuls  of 
hair-powder.  I  have  never  seen,  however, 
an  instance  of  their  taking  liberties  with 
any  person  above  their  class;  yet,  such 
bacchanals  produce  a  feeling  of  insecurity, 
which  makes  the  approach  of  those  spots 
very  unpleasant  during  the  carnival. 

At  Madrid,  where  whole  quarters  of  the 
town,  such  as  Avapie"s  and  Maravillas,  are 
inhabited  exclusively  by  the  rabble,  these 
"  Saturnalia  "  are  performed  upon  a  larger 
scale.  Mr.  White  says,  I  once  ventured 
with  three  or  four  friends,  all  muffled  in 
our  cloaks,  to  parade  the  Avapies  during 
the  carnival.  The  streets  were  crowded 
with  men,  who,  upon  the  least  provocation, 
eal  or  imaginary,  would  have  instantly 
used  the  knife,  and  of  women  equally 
ready  to  take  no  slight  share  in  any  quarrel : 
for  these  lovely  creatures  often  carry  a 
poniard  in  a  sheath,  thrust  within  the  upper 
part  of  the  left  stocking,  and  held  up  by 
the  garter.  We  were,  however,  upon  our 
best  behaviour,  and  by  a  look  of  compla- 
cency on  their  sports,  and  keeping  at  the 
most  respectful  distance  from  the  women, 
came  away  without  meeting  with  the  least 
disposition  to  insolence  or  rudeness. 

A  gentleman,  who,  either  out  of  curio- 
sity or  depraved  taste,  attends  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  vulgar,  is  generally  respected, 
provided  he  is  a  mere  spectator,  and  ap- 
pears indifferent  to  the  females.  The 
ancient  Spanish  jealousy  is  still  observable 
among  the  lower  classes  ;  and  while  not  a 
sword  is  drawn  in  Spain  upon  a  love- 
quarrel,  the  knife  often  decides  the  claims 
of  more  humble  lovers.  Yet  love  is  by  no 
means  the  main  instigator  of  murder  among 
us.  A  constitutional  irritability,  especially  in 
the  southern  provinces,  leads,  without  any 
more  assignable  reason,  to  the  frequent 
shedding  of  blood.  A  small  quantity  of 
wine,  nay,  the  mere  blowing  of  the  easterly 
wind,  called  "  Solano,"  is  infallibly  attended 


with  deadly  quarrels  in  Andalusia,  The 
average  of  dangerous  or  mortal  wounds,  en 
every  great  festival  at  Seville,  is,  I  believe, 
about  two  or  tliree.  We  have,  indeed,  a 
well-endowed  hospital  named  de  los  He- 
ridos,  which,  though  open  to  all  persons 
who  meet  with  dangerous  accidents,  is, 
from  this  unhappy  disposition  of  the  people, 
almost  confined  to  the  wounded.  The 
large  arm-chair,  where  the  surgeon  in  at- 
tendance examines  the  patient  just  as  he  is 
brought  inj  usually  upon  a  ladder,  is  known 
in  the  whole  town  by  the  name  of  "  Silla 
de  los  Guapos,"  the  Bullies'  chair.  Every 
thing,  in  fact,  attests  both  the  generality 
and  inveteracy  of  that  horrible  propensity 
among  the  Spaniards.* 


THE  LIEGE  ALMANAC. 

The  celebrated  almanac  of  "  Francis 
Moore,  physician,"  to  whose  predictions 
thousands  are  accustomed  to  look  with  im- 
plicit confidence  and  veneration,  is  rivalled, 
on  the  continent,  by  the  almanac  of 
Liege,  by  "  Matthew  Laensberg,"  who 
there  enjoys  an  equal  degree  of  celebrity. 

Whether  the  name  of  Laensberg  is  a  real 
or  an  assumed  name  is  a  matter  of  grea1. 
doubt.  A  tradition,  preserved  in  the  family 
of  the  first  printers  of  the  work,  ascribes  it 
to  a  canon  of  St.  Bartholomew,  at  Liege, 
who  live'd  about  the  conclusion  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  or  at  the  beginning  of  the 
seventeenth.  This  is  further  corroborated, 
by  a  picture  of  a  canon  of  that  church 
which  still  exists,  and  which  is  conjectured 
by  many  to  represent  the  inventor  of  the 
celebrated  almanac  of  Liege.  Figure  to 
yourself  an  old  man,  seated  in  an  arm 
chair,  his  left  hand  resting  on  a  globe,  and 
his  right  holding  a  telescope.  At  his  feet 
are  seen  different  mathematical  instruments, 
several  volumes  and  sheets  of  paper,  with 
circles  and  triangles  drawn  upon  them. 
His  eyes  are  large  and  prominent ;  he  has 
a  dull,  heavy  look,  a  nose  in  the  form  of  a 
shell,  and  large  ears,  which  are  left  un- 
covered by  a  greasy  cap.  His  large  mouth, 
half  open,  announces  surliness  and  pe- 
dantry; frightful  wrinkles  furrow  his  face, 
and  his  long  bushy  beard  covers  an  enor- 
mous band.  This  man  is,  besides,  muffled 
up  in  an  old  cassock,  patched  in  several 
places.  Under  his  hideous  portrait  is  the 
inscription  "D.  T.  V.  Bartholomsi  Ca- 
nonicus  et  Philosophise  Professoi." 

Such  is  the  picture  given  by  a  person 

•  Doblado's  Letters  from  Spa. a. 


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276 


who  examined  this  portrait,  and  who, 
though  he  was  at  the  pains  to  search  the 
registers  of  the  chapter  of  Liege,  was  unable 
to  find  any  name  that  at  all  corresponded 
with  the  above  designation.  Hence  it  may 
be  fairly  concluded,  that  the  canon,  whose 
portrait  has  just  been  exhibited,  assumed 
the  name  of  Matthew  Laensbert,  or  Laens- 
berg, as  well  as  the  title  of  professor  of 
philosophy,  for  the  purpose  of  publishing 
his  almanac,  with  the  prognostications, 
which  have  rendered  it  so  celebrated. 

The  earliest  of  these  almanacs  known  to 
exist  is  of  the  year  1636.  It  bears  the 
name  of  Matthew  Lansbert,  mathematician, 
and  not  Laensberg,  as  it  is  now  written. 
In  the  middle  of  the  title  is  seen  the  por- 
trait of  an  astronomer,  nearly  resembling 
that  which  is  still  placed  there.  Afler  the 
printer's  name,  are.  the  words,  "  with  per- 
mission of  the  superior  powers."  This  is 
repeated  in  the  eleven  first  almanacs,  but 
in  that  for  1647,  we  find,  "  with  the  favour 
and  privilege  of  his  highness."  This  pri- 
vilege, granted  by  Ferdinand  of  Bavaria, 
prince  of  Liege,  is  actually  inserted.  It 
gives  permission  to  Leonard  Streete  to 
print  Matthew  Laensberg's  almanac,  and 
Forbids  other  printers  to  make  copies  of  it, 
upcn  pain  of  confiscation,  and  other  penal- 
ties. 

The  name  of  this  prophet,  spelt  Lans- 
bert in  the  first  almanacs,  has  since  been 
regularly  written  Laensberg.  It  is  to  this 
privilege  of  the  prince  bishop  of  Lifege  that 
Voltaire  alludes  in  these  lines  of  his  Epistle 
to  the  king  of  Denmark  :  — 


Et  quand  vons  icrirez  sur  1'almanac  de 
Ne  parlez  des  saisons  qu'avec  un  privilege. 

The  four  first  pages  of  the  Liege  almanac 
for  1636,  are  occupied  by  a  piece  entitled 
"  The  Twelve  Celestial  Signs  governing 
the  Human  Body."  Cancer,  for  instance, 
governs  the  breast,  the  belly,  and  the  lungs, 
with  all  their  diseases.  This  was  at  that 
time  the  fashionable  system  of  astrology, 
which  was  succeeded  by  many  others, 
equally  ill-founded,  and  equally  popular. 
Yet  it  is  a  fact,  that  could  scarcely  be  be- 
lieved, were  it  not  stated  in  an  advertise- 
ment prefixed,  that  the  physicians  mani- 
fested a  jealousy  lest  the  prophet  of  Liege 
should  extend  his  dominion  over  the  heal- 
ing art.  They  obtained  an  order  that  every 
thing  relating  to  the  influence  of  the  celes- 
tial signs  on  diseases  should  be  suppressed, 
?nd  this  retrenchment  took  place,  for  the 
first  time,  in  1679.  The  principal  part, 
however,  was  preserved,  and  still  ensures 
the  success  of  this  wonderful  performance. 


It  consists  of  general  predictions  concern- 
ing the  variations  of  the  seasons,  and  the 
occurrences  of  the  year.  In  each  month 
are  marked  the  days  when  there  will  be 
rain,  and  those  that  will  be  dry ;  whether 
there  will  be  snow  or  hail,  high  winds, 
storms,  &c.  Sterne  alludes  to  this  in  his 
Tristram  Shandy,  when  he  says,  "  I  have 
observed  this  2Gth  of  March,  1759,  a  rainy 
day,  notwithstanding  the  almanac  of  Liege." 

The  general  predictions  mention  the  oc- 
currences that  are  to  take  place  in  every 
month.  Accident  has  frequently  been  won- 
derfully favourable  to  the  prophet ;  and  he 
owes  all  his  reputation  and  celebrity  to  the 
luck  of  having  announced  the  gaining  of  a 
battle,  or  the  death  of  some  distinguished 
person.  An  anecdote  of  Madame  Du-barri, 
at  that  time  all-powerful  at  the  court  of 
Louis  XIV.,  is  not  a  little  singular. 

When  the  king  was  attacked  with  the 
malady  which  put  an  end  to  his  life,  that 
lady  was  obliged  to  leave  Versailles.  She 
then  had  occasion,  says  the  author  of  her 
life,  to  recollect  the  almanac  of  Liege, 
which  had  given  her  great  uneasiness,  and 
of  which  she  had  suppressed  all  the  copies 
she  was  able.  Amongst  the  predictions  for 
the  month  of  April,  in  that  almanac,  was 
the  following :  "  A  lady,  in  the  highest 
favour,  will  act  her  last  part."  She  fre- 
quently said,  "  I  wish  this  odious  month 
of  April  were  over."  According  to  the 
prediction,  she  had  really  acted  "  her  last 
part,"  for  the  king  died  in  the  following 
month,  May  1774.* 


DISCOVERY  OF  MADEIRA. 

In  the  year  1 344,  in  the  reign  of  Peter  IV. 
king  of  Arragon,  the  island  of  Madeira, 
lying  in  32  degrees,  was  discovered,  by  an 
Englishman,  named  Macham,  who,  sailing 
from  England  to  Spain  with  a  lady  whom 
he  had  carried  off,  was  driven  to  the  island 
by  a  tempest,  and  cast  anchor  in  the  har- 
bour or  bay,  now  called  Machiccv,  after  the 
name  of  Macham.  His  mistress  being  sea- 
sick, he  took  her  to  land,  with  some  of  his 
company,  where  she  died,  and  the  ship 
drove  out  to  sea.  As  he  had  a  tender 
affection  for  his  mistress,  he  built  a  chapel 
or  hermitage,  which  he  called  "Jesus," 
and  buried  her  in  it,  and  inscribed  on  her 
tombstone  his  and  her  name,  and  the  occa- 
sion of  their  arrival  there.  In  the  island 
are  very  large  trees,  of  one  of  which  he 


*  Reposito*  v  of  Art». 


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278 


and  his  men  made  a  boat,  and  went  to  sea 
in  it,  and  were  cast  upon  the  shore  of 
Africa,  without  sail  or  oars.  The  Moors 
were  infinitely  surprised  at  the  sight  of 
them,  and  presented  Macham  to  their  king, 
who  sent  him  and  his  companions  to  the 
king  of  Castile,  as  a  prodigy  or  miracle. 

In  1395,  Henry  III.  of  Castile,  by  the 
information  of  Macham,  persuaded  some 
of  his  mariners  to  go  in  search  of  this  island, 
and  of  the  Canaries. 

In  1417,  king  John  II.  of  Castile,  his 
mother  Catherine  being  then  regent,  one 
M.  Ruben,  of  Bracamont,  admiral  of 
France,  having  demanded  and  obtained  of 
the  queen  the  conquest  of  the  Canaries, 
with  the  title  of  king  for  a  kinsman  of 
his,  named  M.  John  Betancourt,  he  de- 
parted from  Seville  with  a  good  army. 
And  it  is  affirmed,  that  the  principal  mo- 
tive that  engaged  him  in  this  enterprise 
was,  to  discover  the  island  of  Madeira, 
which  Macham  had  found. 

TOMB  OF  MACHAM'S  ANNA. 

The  following  elegiac  stanzas  are  founded 
on  the  preceding  historical  fact.  Macham, 
having  consigned  the  body  of  his  beloved 
mistress  to  the  solitary  grave,  is  supposed 
to  have  inscribed  on  it  the  following  pa- 
thetic lines  : — 

O'er  my  poor  ANNA'S  lowly  grave 
No  dirge  shall  sound,  no  knell  shall  ring; 

But  angels,  as  the  high  pines  wave. 
Their  half-heard  '  Miserere '  sing  I 

No  flow'rs  of  transient  bloom  at  eve, 
The  maidens  on  the  turf  shall  strew ; 

Nor  sigh,  as  the  sad  spot  they  leave, 
Sweets  to  the  sweet  a  long  adieu  I 

But  in  this  wilderness  profound, 
O'er  her  the  dove  shall  build  her  nest ; 

And  ocean  swell  with  softer  sound, 
A  Requiem  to  her  dream  of  rest ! 

Ah  !  when  shall  I  as  quiet  be, 

When  not  a  friend  or  human  eye 
Shall  mark,  beneath  the  mossy  tree. 

The  spot  where  we  forgotten  lie  ? 

To  kiss  her  name  on  this  cold  stone. 
Is  all  that  now  on  earth  I  crave  ; 

For  in  this  world  I  am  alone — 
Oh !  lay  me  with  her  ir-  the  grave. 


guaiacum,  there  is  a  very  singular  story 
on  this  subject. 

The  relations  of  a  rich  German  ecclesias- 
tic, carrying  him  to  drink  the  waters  for  the 
recovery  of  his  health,  and  passing  by  the 
house  of  a  famous  quack,  he  inquired  what 
was  the  reverend  gentleman's  distemper? 
They  told  him  a  total  debility,  loss  of  appe- 
tite, and  a  great  decay  in  his  senses.  The 
empiric,  after  viewing  his  enormous  chin, 
and  bodily  bulk,  guessed  rightly  at  the 
cause  of  his  distemper,  and  proposed,  for  a 
certain  sum,  to  bring  him  home,  on  a  day 
fixed,  perfectly  cured.  The  patient  was 
put  into  his  hands,  and  the  doctor  treated 
him  in  the  following  manner  :  —  He  fur- 
nished him  every  day  with  half  a  pound  of 
excellent  dry  biscuit;  to  moisten  this,  he 
allowed  him  three  pints  of  very  good  spring 
water  ;  and  he  suffered  him  to  sleep  but  a 
few  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four.  When 
he  had  brought  him  within  the  just  propor- 
tion of  a  man,  he  obliged  him  to  ring  a 
bell,  or  work  in  the  garden,  with  a  rolling- 
stone,  an  hour  before  breakfast,  and  foui 
hours  in  the  afternoon.  At  the  stated  day 
the  doctor  produced  him,  perfectly  re- 
stored. 

Nice  eating  destroys  the  health,  let  it  be 
ever  so  moderate  ;  for  the  stomach,  as  every 
man's  experience  must  inform  him,  finds 
greater  difficulty  in  digesting  rich  dishes 
than  meats  plainly  dressed.  To  a  sound 
man  sauces  are  needless  ;  to  one  who  is 
diseased,  they  nourish  not  him,  but  his  dis- 
temper ;  and  the  intemperance  of  his  taste 
betrays  him  into  the  hands  of  death,  which 
could  not,  perhaps,  have  mastered  his  con- 
stitution. Lewis  Cornaro  brought  himself 
into  a  wretched  condition,  while  a  young 
man,  by  indulging  his  taste  ;  yet,  when  he 
had  once  taken  a  resolution  of  restraining 
it,  nature  did  that  which  physic  could  not  ; 
it  restored  him  to  perfect  health  of  body, 
and  serenity  of  rnind,  both  of  which  he  en- 
joyed to  extreme  old  age. 


GOOD  EATING. 

That  "  a  sharp  stomach  is  the  best 
sauce,1'  is  a  sayiug  as  true  as  it  is  common. 
In  Ulrick  Button's  bock  on  the  virtues  of 


HEADING  ALOUD. 

BT  MARGARET  DUCHESS  OF  NEWCASTLE. 

1671. 

-  To  read  lamely  or  crookedly,  and 
not  evenly,  smoothly,  and  thoroughly,  en- 
tangles the  sense.  Nay,  the  very  sound  of 
the  voice  will  seem  to  alter  the  sense  of  the 
therm;  ;  and  though  the  sense  will  be  there 
in  despite  of  the  ill  voice,  or  ill  reading, 
vet  it  will  be  concealed,  or  discovered  to 


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2dO 


its  disadvantages.  As  an  ill  musician,  (or 
indeed  one  that  cannot  play  at  all,)  instead 
of  playing,  puts  the  fiddle  out  of  tune, 
(and  causeth  a  discord,)  which,  if  well 
played  upon,  would  sound  harmoniously  ; 
or  if  he  can  play  but  one  tune,  plays  it  on 
all  sorts  of  instruments ;  so,  some  will  read 
with  one  tone  or  sound  of  voice,  though 
the  passions  and  numbers  are  different ; 
and  some  again,  in  reading,  wind  up  their 
voices  to  such  a  passionate  screw,  that  they 
whine  or  squeal,  rather  than  speak  or  read : 
others  fold  up  their  voices  with  such  dis- 
tinctions, that  they  make  that  triangular 
which  is  four-square ;  and  that  narrow, 
which  should  be  broad ;  and  that  high, 
which  should  be  low ;  and  low,  that  should 
be  high  :  and  some  again  read  so  fast,  that 
the  sense  is  lost  in  the  race.  So  that  writ- 
ings sound  good  or  bad,  as  the  readers, 
and  not  as  their  authors  are  :  and,  indeed, 
such  advantage  a  good  or  ill  reader  hath, 
that  those  that  read  well  shall  give  a  grace 
to  a  foolish  author ;  and  those  that  read  ill, 
do  disgrace  a  wise  and  a  witty  one.  But 
there  are  two  sorts  of  readers ;  the  one  that 
reads  to  himself,  and  for  his  own  benefit ; 
the  other,  to  benefit  another  by  hearing  it : 
in  the  first,  there  is  required  a  good  judg- 
ment, and  a  ready  understanding :  in  the 
other,  a  good  voice  and  a  graceful  delivery : 
so  that  a  writer  must  have  a  double  desire  ; 
the  one,  that  lie  may  write  well ;  the  other, 
that  he  may  be  read  well. 


By  LAVATER. 

Who  in  the  same  given  time  can  pro- 
duce more  than  many  others,  has  vigour ; 
who  can  produce  more  and  better,  has 
talents ;  who  can  produce  what  none  else 
can,  has  genius. 

Who,  without  pressing  temptation,  tells 
a  lie,  will,  without  pressing  temptation,  act 
ignobly  and  meanly. 

Who,  under  pressing  temptations  to  lie, 
adheres  to  truth,  nor  to  the  profane  betrays 
aught  of  a  sacred  trust,  is  near  the  summit 
of  wisdom  and  virtue. 

All  affectation  is  the  vain  and  ridiculous 
attempt  of  poverty  to  appear  rich. 

Who  has  no  friend  and  no  enemy,  is  one 
of  the  vulgar ;  and  without  talents,  powers, 
or  energy. 

The  more  honesty  a  man  has,  the  less  he 
affects  the  air  of  a  saint — the  affectation  of 
sanctity  is  a  blot  on  the  face  of  piety. 


Love  as  if  you  could  hate  and  might  be 
hated,  is  a  maxim  of  detested  prudence  in 
real  friendship,  the  bane  of  all  tenderness, 
the  death  of  all  familiarity.  Consider  the 
fool  who  follows  it  as  nothing  inferior  to 
him  who  at  every  bit  of  bread  trembles  at 
the  thought  of  its  being  poisoned. 

There  are  more  heroes  than  saints  (heroes 
I  call  rulers  over  the  minds  and  destinies  of 
men ;)  more  saints  than  humane  characters. 
He,  who  humanizes  all  that  is  within  and 
around  himself,  adore  :  I  know  but  of  one 
such  by  tradition. 

He  who  laughed  at  you  till  he  got  to 
your  door,  flattered  you  as  you  opened  it — 
felt  the  force  of  your  argument  whilst  he 
was  with  you — applauded  when  he  rose, 
and,  after  he  went  away,  execrated  you — 
has  the  most  indisputable  title  to  an  arch- 
dukedom in  hell. 

Let  the  four-and-twenty  elders  in  heaven 
rise  before  him  who,  from  motives  of  hu- 
manity, can  totally  suppress  an  arch,  full- 
pointed,  but  offensive  ban  mot. 


THE  PARLIAMENT  CLUBS. 

Before  the  year  1736,  it  had  been  usual 
for  gentlemen  of  the  House  of  Commons 
to  dine  together  at  the  Crown-tavern  in 
Palace-yard,  in  order  to  be  in  readiness  to 
attend  the  service  of  the  house.  This  club 
amounted  to  one  hundred  and  twenty,  be- 
sides thirty  of  their  friends  coming  out  of 
the  country.  In  January,  1736,  sir  Robert 
Walpole  and  his  friends  began  to  dine  in 
the  same  manner,  at  the  Bell  and  Sun  in 
King-street,  Westminster,  and  their  club 
was  one  hundred  and  fifty,  besides  absent 
members.  These  parties  seem  to  have 
been  the  origin  of  Brookes's  and  White's 
clubs. 


RIGHT  AND  LEFT  HAND. 

Dr.  Zinchinelli,  of  Padua,  in  an  essay 
"  On  the  Reasons  why  People  use  the 
Right  Hand  in  preference  to  th^Left,"  will 
not  allow  custom  or  imitation  to  be  the 
cause.  He  affirms,  that  the  left  arm  cannot 
be  in  violent  and  continued  motion  without 
causing  pain  in  the  left  side,  because  there 
is  the  seat  of  the  heart  and  of  the  arterial 
system ;  and  that,  therefore,  Nature  herself 
compels  man  to  make  use  of  the  right 
hand. 


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282 


THE  DEATH  OF  LEILA. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

Twas  moonlight — LEILA  sat  retir'd 

Upon  the  tow'ring  beach, 
Watching  the  waves,  "  like  one  inspir'd  " 

With  things  beyond  her  reach  : 
There  was  a  calmness  on  the  water 
Suited  to  Sorrow's  hapless  daughter, 
For  consolation  seem'd  to  be 
Mixt  up  with  its  solemnity  I 

The  stars  were  shedding  far  and  wide 

Their  twinkling  lights  of  peerless  blue ; 
And  o'er  the  undulating  tide 

The  breeze  on  balmy  pinions  flew  ; 
The  scene  might  well  have  rais'd  the  soul 
Above  misfortune's  dark  controul. 
Had  not  the  hand  of  Death  been  laid 
On  that  belov'd  and  matchless  maid ! 

I  watch'd  the  pale,  heart-broken  girl, 

Her  shatter'd  form,  her  look  insane, — 
I  saw  her  raven  locks  uncurl 

With  moisture  from  the  peaceful  main  : 
I  saw  her  wring  her  hands  with  grief, 
Like  one  depriv'd  of  Hope's  relief, 
And  then  she  sigh'd,  as  if  bereft        / 
Of  the  last  treasure  heav'n  had  left ! 

Slowly  I  sought  the  cheerless  spot 
Where  LEILA  lay,  absorb'd  in  care, 

Bat  she,  poor  girl !  discern'd  me  not, 
Nor  dreamt  that  friendship  linger'd  there  I 

Her  grief  had  bound  her  to  the  earth, 

And  clouded  all  her  beauty's  worth  ; 

And  when  her'clammy  hand  I  press'd, 

She  seem'd  of  feeling  dispossess'd  ! 

Yet  there  wore  motion,  sense,  and  life, 
Kema.ii....-,  ...  iii.it  shatter'd  frame. 
As  if  existing  by  the  strife 

Of  feelings  none  but  Love  can  name  I 
I  spoke,  she  answer'd  not — I  took 
Her  hand  with  many  a  fearful  look — 
Her  languid  eyes  I  gaz'd  upon, 
And  press'd  her  lips— but  she  was  gone  1 

B.  W.  R. 

Islington,  1827. 


RATTING. 

There  are  three  methods  proposed  for 
lessening  the  number  of  rats. 

I.  Introduce  them  at  table  as  a  delicacy. 
They  would  probably  be  savoury  food,  and 
if  nature  has  not  made  them  so,  the  cook 
may.  Rat  pie  would  be  as  good  as  rook 
pie;  and  four  tails  intertwisted  like  the 
serpents  of  the  delphic  tripod,  and  rising 
into  a  spiral  obelisk,  would  crest  the  crust 
more  fantastically  than  pigeon's  feet.  After 


a  whi'le  they  might  be  declared  game  by 
the  legislature,  which  would  materially  ex- 
pedite their  extirpation. 

II.  Make   use   of  their  fur.      Rat-skin 
robes   for  the   ladies   would  be  beautiful, 
warm,  costly,  and  new.     Fashion  requires 
only   the   two   last   qualities ;  it  is  hoped 
the  two  former  would  not  be    objection- 
able. 

III.  Inoculate  some  subjects  with  the 
small-pox,  or  any  other  infectious  disease, 
and  turn  them  loose.     Experiments  should 
first  be  made,  lest  the  disease  should  as- 
sume in  them  so  new  a  form  as  to  be  capa- 
ble of  being  returned  to  us  with  interest. 
If  it  succeeded,  man  has  means  in  his  hand 
which    would    thin    the    hyenas,   wolves, 
jackals,  and  all  gregarious  beasts  of  prey. 

N.  B.  If  any  of  our  patriotic  societies 
should  think  proper  to  award  a  gold  medal, 
silver  cup,  or  other  remuneration  to  either 
of  these  methods,  the  projector  has  left  his 
address  with  the  editor.* 

BUNGAY  HAND-BILL. 

(Copy.) 

PONY  LOST. 

On  February  21st,  1822,  this  devil  bade 
me  adieu. 

LOST,  stolen,  or  astray,  not  the  least 
doubt  but  run  away,  a  mare  pony  that  is 
all  bay : — if  I  judge  pretty  nigh,  it  is  about 
eleven  hands  high ; — full  tail  and  mane,  a 
pretty  head  and  frame ;  —  cut  on  both 
shoulders  by  the  collar,  not  being  soft  nor 
hollow  : — it  is  about  five  years  old,  which 
may  be  easily  told ; — for  spirit  and  for 
speed,  the  devil  cannot  her  exceed. 

Whoever  can  give  information  or  bring 
the  said  runaway  to  me,  JOHN  WINTER, 
Glass-stainer  and  Combustible-maker,  Up- 
per Olland  Street,  Bungay,  shall  be  hand- 
somely rewarded  for  their  trouble. 


NOMINATIVE  CASE. 

Sancho,  prince  of  Castile,  being  present 
at  a  papal  consistory  at  Rome,  wherein  the 
proceedings  were  conducted  in  Latin,  which 
he  did  not  understand,  and  hearing  loud 
applause,  inquired  of  his  interpreter  what 
caused  it :  "  My  lord,"  replied  the  inter- 
preter,  "  the  pope  has  caused  you  to  be 
proclaimed  king  of  Egypt."  "  It  does  not 
become  us,"  said  the  grave  Spaniard,  "  U 
be  wanting  in  gratitude ;  rise  up,  and  pro  • 
claim  his  holiness  caliph  of  Bagdad." 

»  Dr.  Aikin's  Athenaeum. 


283 


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204 


DISCOUNT  FOR  CASH. 

The  following  anecdote  is  related  in  a 
journal  of  the  year  1789  : — 

A  service  of  plate  was  delivered  at  the 
duke  of  Clarence's  house,  by  his  order,  ac- 
companied by  the  bill,  amounting  to  1500/., 
which  his  royal  highness  deeming  exor- 
bitant, sent  back,  remarking,  that  he  con- 
ceived the  overcharge  to  be  occasioned  by 
the  apprehension  that  the  tradesman  might 
be  kept  long  out  of  his  money.  He  added, 
that  so  far  from  its  being  his  intention  to 
pay  by  tedious  instalments,  or  otherwise 
distress  those  with  whom  he  dealt,  he  had 
laid  it  down  as  an  invariable  principle,  to 
discharge  every  account  the  moment  it  be- 
came due.  The  account  was  returned  to 
his  royal  highness  the  next  morning,  with 
three  hundred  pounds  taken  off,  and  it  was 
instantly  paid. 


SPORTING. 

A  wit  said  of  the  late  bishop  of  Durham, 
when  alive,  "  His  grace  is  the  only  man  in 
England  who  may  kill  game  legally  without 
a  stamped  license :  if  actually  taken  with 
a  gun  in  his  hand,  he  might  exclaim  in  the 
words  of  his  own  grants  — '  I  Shute,  by 
divine  permission.' " 


"  STOP  AND  READ." 

We  have  seen  this  requisition  on  the 
walls  till  we  are  tired :  in  a  book  it  is  a 
novelty,  and  here,  I  hope  it  may  enforce  its 
claim.  For  thy  sake,  gentle  reader,  I  am 
anxious  that  it  should ;  for,  if  thou  hast  a 
tithe  of  the  pleasure  I  had,  from  the  peru- 
sal of  the  following  verses,  I  expect  com- 
mendation for  bidding  thee  '•'•  stop  and 
read." 

THE  FIRST  OF  MARCH. 

The  bud  is  in  the  bough 

And  the  leaf  is  in  the  bud, 
And  Earth's  beginning  now 

In  her  veins  to  feel  the  blood, 
Which,  warm'd  by  summer's  sun 

In  th'  alembic  of  the  vine, 
From  her  founts  will  overrun 

In  I*  rnddy  gush  of  wine. 


The  perf  ume  and  the  bloooi 

That  shall  decorate  the  flower, 
Are  quickening  in  the  gloom 

Of  their  subterranean  bower ; 
And  the  juices  meant  to  feed 

Trees,  vegetables,  fruits. 
Unerringly  proceed 

To  their  preappointed  roots. 

How  awful  the  thought 

Of  the  wonders  under  ground. 
Of  the  mystic  changes  wrought 

In  the  silent,  dark  profound; 
How  each  thing  upwards  tends 

By  necessity  decreed, 
And  a  world's  support  depends 

On  the  shooting  of  a  seed  1 

The  Summer's  in  her  ark, 

And  this  sunny-pinion'd  day 
Is  commission'd  to  remark 

Whether  Winter  holds  her  sway  ; 
Go  back,  thou  dove  of  peace, 

With  the  myrtle  on  thy  wing, 
Say  that  floods  and  tempests  cease, 

And  the  world  is  ripe  for  Spring. 

Thou  hast  fann'd  the  sleeping  Earth 

Till  her  dreams  are  all  of  flowers, 
And  die  waters  look  in  mirth 

For  their  overhanging  bowers ; 
The  forest  seems  to  listen 

For  the  rustle  of  its  leaves. 
And  the  very  skies  to  glisten 

In  the  hope  of  summer  eves. 

Thy  vivifying  spell 

Has  been  felt  beneath  the  wave. 
By  the  dormouse  in  its  cell, 

And  the  mole  within  its  cave  ; 
And  the  summer  tribes  that  creep, 

Or  in  air  expand  their  wing, 
Have  started  from  their  sleep, 

At  the  summons  of  the  Spring. 

The  cattle  lift  their  voices 

From  the  valleys  and  the  hills, 
And  the  feather'd  race  rejoices 

With  a  gush  of  tuneful  bills ; 
And  if  this  cloudless  arch 

Fills  the  poet's  song  with  glee, 
O  thou  sunny  first  of  March, 

Be  it  dedicate  to  thee  I 

This  beautiful  poem  has  afforded  me 
exquisite  gratification.  Till  I  saw  it  printed 
in  Mr.  Dyce's  "  Specimens  of  British  Po- 
etesses," I  was  ignorant  that  a  living  lady 
had  written  so  delightfully.  Without  a 
friend  at  my  elbow  to  instruct  me  whether 
jf  should  prefix  "  Miss  "  or  "  Mrs."  to  her 
felicitous  name,  I  transcribe — as  I  find  it 
in  Mr.  Dyce's  volume — FELICIA  HEMANS. 


THE  TAIU.V,  ttOOK. 


of 


Upon  my  *oul  it'»  a  fact." 

MATTHEWS 


and  Self. 


For  the  Table  Book. 


"  Is  the  master  at  home,  sir?"  said  a 
broad-shouldered  Scotchman  (wearing  a 
regimental  coat  of  the  --  regiment,  and 
with  his  bonnet  in  his  hand)  to  myself, 
who  had  answered  a  ring  at  the  office-bell. 
I  replied  that  he  was  not.  "  Weel,  that's 
onlucky,  sir,"  said  he,  "  for  ye  see,  sir,  a 
hae  goten  a  pertection  here,  an'  a  hae 
been  till  a'  the  Scotchmen  that  a  can  hear 
ony  thing  o',  but  they  hae  a'  signed  for  the 
month  ;  an'  a  hae  a  shorteness  o'  brith,  that 
wunna  lat  me  wurk  or  du  ony  thing  ;  an' 
a'd  be  vary  glaid  gin  a  cud  git  doon  to 
Scoteland  i'  the  nixt  vaissel,  for  a  hanna'  a 
baubee;  an',  as  a  sid  afore,  a  canna  wurk, 
ao'  gin  maister  B.  wud  jist  sig-n  ma  pertec- 

Vol.  I.—  10 


tion,  a  hae  twa  seagnatures,  an'  a'd  gi. 
awa'p  the  morn."  For  once  I  had  told  no 
lie  in  denying  Mr.  B.  to  his  visitor,  and, 
therefore,  in  no  dread  of  detection  from 
cough,  or  other  viva  voce  evidence,  I  usher- 
ed the  "  valiant  Scot "  into  the  sanctum  of  a 
lawyer's  clerk. 

There  is  a  very  laudable  benevolent 
institution  in  London,  called  the  "  Scottish 
Hospital,"  which,  on  proper  representa- 
tions made  to  it,  signed  by  three  of  it* 
members,  (forms  whereof  are  annexed,  in 
blank,  to  the  printed  petition,  which  is 
given  gratuitously  to  applicants,)  will  pass 
poor  natives  of  Scotland  to  such  parts  of 
their  father-land  as  they  wish,  free  of  ex- 
pense, and  will  otherwise  relieve  their 
wants;  but  each  member  is  only  allowed 


287 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


2fi8 


to  sign  one  petition  each  month.  This  poor 
fellow  had  come  in  hopes  of  obtaining  Mr. 
B.'s  signature  to  his  request  to  be  sent 
home ;  and,  while  waiting  to  procure  it, 
told  me  the  circumstances  that  had  reduced 
him  to  ask  it. 

He  was  a  native  of ,  where  the  rents 

had  lately  been  raised,  by  a  new  laird,  far 
beyond  the  capabilities  of  the  tacksmen. 
They  had  done  their  best  to  pay  them — had 
struggled  long,  and  hard,  with  an  ungrate- 
ful soil — but  their  will  and  industry  were 
lost ;  and  they  were,  finally,  borne  down 
by  hard  times,  and  harsh  measures.  Twas 
hard  to  leave  the  hearths  which  generations 
of  their  forefathers  had  shadowed  and  hal- 
lowed— 'twas  yet  harder  to  see  their  infants' 
lips  worrying  the  exhausted  breast,  and  to 
watch  the  cheeks  of  their  children  as  they 
grew  pale  from  want — and  to  see  their 
frolics  tamed  by  hunger  into  inert  stupidity. 
An  American  trader  had  just  touched  at 
their  island,  for  the  purpose  of  receiving 
emigrants,  and  half  its  inhabitants  had 
domiciled  themselves  on  board,  before  her 
arrival  had  been  known  twelve  hours.  Our 
poor  Scot  would  fain  have  joined  them, 
with  his  family  and  parents,  but  he  lacked 
the  means  to  provide  even  the  scanty  store 
of  oatmeal  and  butter  which  they  were  re- 
quired to  ship  before  they  could  be  allowed 
to  step  on  deck  ;  so,  in  a  fit  of  distress  and 
despair,  he  left  the  home  that  had  never 
been  a  day  out  of  his  sight,  and  enlist- 
ed with  a  party  of  his  regiment,  then  at 

,   for   the    sole    purpose   of   sending 

to  the  afflicted  tenants  of  his  "  bit  housey," 
the  poor  pittance  of  bounty  he  received, 
to  be  a  short  stay  'twixt  them  and  starva- 
tion. 

He  had  been  last  at  St.  John's,  New- 
foundland ;  "  and  there,"  said  he,  indig- 
nantly, "  they  mun  mak*  a  cook's  orderly 
o'  me,  as  gin  a  war'  nae  as  proper  a  man 
as  ony  o'  them  to  carry  a  musket ;  an'  they 
sint  me  to  du  a*  the  odd  jobes  o'  a  chap 
that  did  a  wife's-wark,  tho'  there  were  a 
gude  fivety  young  chaps  i'  the  regiment  that 
had  liked  it  wul  aneugh,  and  were  better 
fetfing  for  the  like  o'  sican  a  place  than 
mysel. — And  so,  sir,"  he  continued,  "  thar 
a  was,  working  mysel  intill  a  scalding 
heat,  and  than  a'd  geng  out  to  carry  in  the 
cauld  water ;  an'  i'  the  deeing  o't,  a  got  a 
cauld  that  sattled  inwardly,  an'  garr'd  me 
hae  a  fivre  an'  spit  blood.  Weel,  sir,  aifter 
mony  months,  a  gote  better ;  but  oh !  a  was 
unco  weak,  and  but  a  puir  creature  frae  a 
strong  man  afore  it:  but  a  did  na  mak 
muckle  o't,  for  a  thought  ay,  gin  ony  thing 
cam  o't  to  disable  rne,  or  so,  that  a  should 


hae  goten  feve-pence  or  sax-pence 
an'  that  had  been  a  great  help.'' 

Oh !  if  the  rich  would  but  take 

the  trouble  to  learn  how  many  happy  haarts 
they  might  make  at  small  expense — ind 
fashion  their  deeds  to  their  knowledge — 
how  many  prayers  might  nightly  ascind 
with  their  names  from  grateful  bosoms  to 
the  recording  angel's  ears — and  how  much 
better  would  the  credit  side  of  their  account 
with  eternity  appear  on  that  day,  when 
the  great  balance  must  be  struck  ! 

There  was  a  pause — for  my  narrator's 
breath  failed  him ;  and  I  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  surveying  him.  He  was  about 
thirty,  with  a  half  hale,  half  hectic  cheek ; 
a  strong  red  beard,  of  some  three  days' 
growth,  and  a  thick  crop  of  light  hair, 
such  as  only  Scotchmen  have— one  of  the 
Cain's  brands  of  our  northern  brethren — 
it  curled  firmly  round  his  forehead ;  and 
his  head  was  set  upon  his  broad  shoulders 
with  that  pillar  of  neck  which  Adrian  in 
particular,  and  many  other  of  the  Roman 
emperors,  are  represented  with,  on  their 
coins,  but  which  is  rarely  seen  at  present. 
He  must,  when  in  full  health,  have 
stood  about  five  feet  seven  ;  but,  now,  he 
lost  somewhat  of  his  height  in  a  stoop, 
contracted  during  his  illness,  about  the 
chest  and  shoulders,  and  common  to  most 
people  affected  with  pulmonary  complaints  : 
his  frame  was  bulky,  but  the  sinews  seemed 
to  have  lost  their  tension ;  and  he  looked 
like  "  one  of  mig-ht,"  who  had  grappled 
strongly  with  an  evil  one  in  sore  sickness. 
He  bore  no  air  of  discontent,  hard  as  his  lot 
was ;  yet  there  was  nothing  theatrical  in 
his  resignation.  All  Scotchmen  are  pre- 
destinarians,  and  he  fancied  he  saw  the 
immediate  hand  of  Providence  working  out 
his  destiny  through  his  misfortunes,  and 
against  such  interference  he  thought  it  vain 
to  clamour.  Far  other  were  my  feelings 
when  I  looked  on  his  fresh,  broad  face,  and 
manly  features,  his  open  brow,  his  width 
of  shoulders,  and  depth  of  chest,  and  heard 
how  the  breath  laboured  in  that  chest  for 
inefficient  vent 

"  May  be,"  said  he— catching  my  eye 
in  its  wanderings,  as  he  raised  his  own 
from  the  ground, — "  May  be  a'd  be  better, 
gin  a  were  doon  i'  wun  nain  place."  I 
was  vext  to  my  soul  that  my  look  had 
spoken  so  plainly  as  to  elicit  this  remark. 
Tell  a  man  in  a  consumption  that  he  looks 
charmingly,  and  you  have  opened  the 
sluices  of  his  heart  almost  as  effectually,  to 
your  ingress,  as  if  you  had  really  cured 
him.  And  yet  I  think  this  poor  fellow 
said  what  he  did,  rather  to  please  one  which 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


he  saw  took  an  interest  in  him,  than  to 
flatter  himself  into  a  belief  of  recovery,  or 
from  any  such  existing  belief;  for,  shortly 
after,  when  I  asked  him  what  he  would  do 
in  Scotland,  "  A  dunna  ken  wat  a  mun 
du,"  he  replied  ;  "  a  canna  du  ony  labour- 
ing wark,  an'  a  ha  na  goten  ony  trade ; 
but,  ye  see,  sir,  we  like  ay  to  die  what* 
wer're  born  ;  and  my  faither,  an'  my  gran'- 
faither  afore  him  forbye,  a'  my  ither  kin, 
an'  the  mither  that  bore  me,  there  a'  i'  the 

nook  o' kirk-yaird  ;  an'  than  my  wife 

an  twa  bairnies  :" There  was  a  pause 

in  the  soldier's  voice ;  he  had  not  learnt 
the  drama  of  mendicity  or  sentimentality, 
but,  by  — !  there  was  a  tear  in  his  eye.* — 
I  hate  a  scene  as  much  as  Byron  did,  but  I 
admire  a  feeling  heart,  and  pity  a  sorrow- 
ful one the  tear  did  not  fall.  I 

looked  in  his  face  when  I  heard  his  voice 
again  ;  his  eye  glistened,  and  the  lash  was 

wet,  but  the  tear  was  gone And  there 

stood  I,  whose  slender  body  scarcely  com- 
prehended one  half  of  the  circumference  of 
his  muscular  frame. — "  And  the  hand  of 
Death  is  here  !"  said  I ;  and  then  I  turned 
my  eyes  upon  myself,  and  almost  wondered 
how  my  soul  dwelt  in  so  frail  a  tenement, 
while  his  was  about  to  escape  from  such  a 
seeming  fastness  of  flesh. 

After  some  further  conversation,  he  told 
me  his  regiment  had  at  one  time  been 
ordered  off  for  Africa  against  the  Ashan-  • 
tees  ;  and  sure  never  mortal  man  regretted 
counter  orders  on  such  grounds  as  he  did 
those  which  balked  his  expectations  of  a 
visit  to  Sierra  Leone. — "  A  thought,"  said 
he,  "  wur  regiment  woud  ha  gien  to 
Aifrica  against  the  Aishantees — an  a  was 
in  hopes  it  wud  it's  a  didly  cli- 
mate, an'  there  was  nae  money  goten  out 
o'  the  laist  fray  ;  but  thin — perhaps  its 
jist  as  well  to  die  in  ae  place  as  anither — 
but  than  we  canna  bring  wursels  to  feel  it, 
tho'  we  may  think  it — an'  than  ye  see,  sir, 
as  a  sid  afore,  a  hae  twa  bairnies,  an  gin  a'd 
laid  doon  wi'  the  rast,  the  mither  o'  them 
might  hae  goten  the  widow's  pension  for 

them    an'    hirsel." The  widow's 

pension  !  sixpence  a-day  for  a  woman  and 
two  children — and  death  to  the  fourth  per- 
son as  the  only  price  of  it !  Hear  this, 
shade  of  Lempriere !  Manlius  and  the 
Horatii  died  to  save  a  country,  and  to  pur- 
chase earthly  immortality  by  their  deaths 
— but  here's  a  poor  fellow  willing  to  give  up 


the  ghost,  by  sword,  plague,  pestilence  or 
famine,  to  secure  a  wife  and  two  children 
two-pence  each,  per  day ! 

Look  to  it,  ye  three-bottle  beasts,  or 
men — as  the  courtesy  of  a  cringing  world 
calls  you — look  to  it,  when  ye  toast  the 
next  loidly  victor  "with  three  times  three!" 
— Shout  'till  the  roof  rings,  and  then  think, 
amid  the  din  of  your  compeers,  of  the 
humble  dead — of  those  who  walk  silently  in 
the  path  of  the  grave,  and  of  the  widowed 
and  fatherless.  Commanders  die  for  glory, 
for  a  funeral  procession,  or  a  title,  or  wealth 
for  those  they  leave  behind ;  but  who 
speaks  of  the  private,  who  dies  with  a 
wound  for  every  pore? — he  rots  on  the  earth; 
or,  with  some  scores  or  hundreds  of  his 
comrades,  a  few  inches  beneath  it ;  and  his 
wife  gets — "  sixpence  a  day  !" 

Poor  fellow,  thought  I,  as  I  looked  on  my 
narrator — were  I  a  king — but  kings  cannot 
scrape  acquaintance  with  every  man  in  tae 
ranks  of  their  forces — but  had  I  been  your 
officer,  I  think  you  should  not  have  wanted 
your  pension  for  the  few  days  that  are  to 
shine  on  you  in  this  world ;  and,  had  you 
fallen,  it  should  have  gone  hard  with  me. 
but  your  wife  and  two  children  should  have 
had  their  twopence  each  per  day — and, 
were  I  a  man  of  fortune,  I  would  be  proud 
to  keep  the  life  in  such  a  heart,  as  long  as 
God  would  permit — and  so  saying,  or 
thinking — and  blinking  away  the  dimness 
of  humanity  from  my  eye — I  thru&t  my  hand 
into  my  pocket,  and  gave  him  SIXPENCE. 

Reader  !  smile  not ;   I  am  but  a  poor 

harum  scarum  headed  mortal — 't  was  all  I 
had,  "  in  possession,  expectancy,  remainder, 
or  reversion  " — 

J.  J.  K. 


"  L" The  ACCUSING  SPIRIT  flew  up  to  heaven's 

chancery  with  the  oath,  and  blushed  as  he  gave  it  in — 
the  BECOR0IN&  ANQEL,  us  he  wrote  it  down,  dropped  a 
tear  upon  the  word,  and  blotted  it  out  for  ever !"  — 
S'trae.  ED.] 


The  following  poem  originates  in  a  le- 
gend which  is  still  popular  in  many  parts 
of  the  highlands  of  Scotland  :  that  a  female 
branch  of  the  noble  family  of  Douglas 
contracted  an  imprudent  marriage  with  a 
kerne,  or  mountain  peasant,  who  was 
drowned  in  the  Western  Islands,  where  he 
had  escaped  for  concealment  from  the  per- 
secutions of  the  offended  family  of  his  wife. 
She  survived  him  eighteen  years,  and 
wandered  a  maniac  over  the  mountains , 
where,  as  superstition  alleges,  she  is  even 
now  to  be  seen  at  daybreak.  The  stanzas 
are  supposed  to  be  the  extempore  recita- 
tions of  an  old  bard  to  a  group  of  attentive 
villagers. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


29? 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HILL. 

Poor  girl !  she  seem'd  of  an  unearthly  mould, 

A  thing  superior  to  the  frowns  of  fate ; 
But  never  did  my  tearful  eyes  behold 

A  maid  so  fair,  and  so  disconsolate  ; 
Yet  was  she  once  a  child  of  high  estate, 

And  nurst  in  spendour,  till  an  envious  gloom 
Sunk  her  beneath  its  harsh  o'erpowering  weight : 

Robb'd  her  pale  features  of  their  orient  bloom, 

And  with  a  noiseless  pace,  mov'd  onwards  to  the 
tomb. 

She  walk'd  upon  the  earth,  as  one  who  knew 
The  dread  mysterious  secrets  of  the  grave ; 

For  never  o'er  her  eye  of  heav'nly  blue 
Lighten'd  a  smile ;  but  like  the  ocean  wave 

That  roars,  unblest  with  sunshine,  through  the  cave 
Rear'd  in  the  depths  of  Snowden,  she  had  flown 

To  endless  grief  for  refuge ;  and  would  rave, 
And  tell  to  the  night-winds  her  tale  unknown, 
Or  wander  o'er  the  heath,  deserted  and  alone. 

And  when  the  rain  beat  hard  against  the  hill. 
And  storms  rush'd  by  upon  their  wing  of  pow'r, 

Ixjnely  she'd  stray  beside  the  bubbling  rill, 
Or  fearless  list  the  deep-voic'd  cataract's  roar ; 

And  when  the  tempest's  wrath  was  heard  no  more 
She  wander'd  home,  the  mountain  sod  to  dress 

With  many  a  wreath,  and  many  a  summer  flow'r  : 
And  thus  she  liv'd,  the  sister  of  distress, 
The  solitude  of  love,  nurst  in  the  wilderness. 

She  was  the  child  of  nature ;  earth,  sea,  sky, 
Mountain  and  cataract,  fern-clad  hill  and  dale 

Possess'd  a  nameless  charm  in  her  young  eye. 
Pure  and  eternal,  for  in  Deva's  vale 

Her  heart  first  listen'd  to  a  lover's  tale, 
Breath'd  by  a  mountain  kerne  ;  and  every  scene 

That  wanton'd  blithely  in  the  od'rous  gale, 
Had  oft  beheld  her  lord's  enamour'd  mien, 
As  tremblingly  she  sought  each  spot  where  he  had 
been. 

But  she  is  gone !    The  cold  earth  is  her  pillow, 
And  o'er  her  blooms  the  summer's  sweetest  flow'r  ; 

A  nd  o'er  her  ashes  weeps  the  grateful  willow 
She  lov'd  to  cherish  in  a  happier  hour — 

Mute  is  the  voice  that  breath'd  from  Deva's  bow'r 
Chill  is  the  soul  of  the  neglected  rover  ; 

We  saw  the  death-cloud  in  destruction  low'r 
O'er  her  meek  head,  the  western  waves  roll'd  over 
The  corse  of  Lira  she  lov'd,  her  own  devoted  lover. 

But  oft,  when  the  faint  sun  is  in  the  west, 
And  the  hush'd  gales  along  the  ocean  die, 

Strange  sounds  reecho  from  her  place  of  rest. 
And  sink  into  the  heart  most  tenderly — 

The  bird  of  evening  hour,  the  humming  bee. 
And  the  wild  music  of  the  mountain  rill. 

Seem  breathing  sorrow  as  they  murmur  by. 
And  whispering  to  the  night,  while  all  is  still, 
The  tale  of  the  poor  girl — the  "  Lady  of  the  Hill." 

W.  F.  D. — Indicator. 


Customs. 

HIGHLAND  WEDDINGS. 
BY  JOHN  HA.Y  ALLAN,  ESQ. 

There  is  not  probably,  at  the  present 
day,  a  more  social  and  exhilarating  con- 
vocation than  a  highland  wedding  among 
the  lower  orders.  The  ancient  hospitality 
and  kindliness  of  character  fills  it  with 
plenty  and  good  humour,  and  gathers  from 
every  side  all  who  have  the  slightest  claim 
in  the  blood,  name,  and  friendship  of  the 
bride  or  bridegroom.  That  olden  attach- 
ment, which  formerly  bound  together  the 
superiors  and  their  dependants,  yet  so  far 
influences  their  character  as  to  bring  them 
together  at  the  same  board  upon  this  occa- 
sion. When  a  wedding  is  to  take  place, 
the  attendance  of  the  chief,  or  laird,  as  well 
as  that  of  the  higher  tacksmen,  is  always 
solicited  by  the  respective  parties,  and 
there  are  few  who  would  refuse  this  mark 
of  consideration  and  good-  will.  The  clans- 
men are  happy  in  the  honour  which  they 
receive,  and  the  "  Duinne-Uasal"  is  pleased 
with  the  regard  and  respect  which  renders 
the  countenance  of  his  presence  necessary 
to  his  people. 

Upon  the  day  of  the  wedding,  the  friends 
of  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  assemble 
at  the  house  of  their  respective  parents, 
with  all  the  guns  and  pistols  which  can  be 
collected  in  the  country.  If  the  distance  of 
the  two  rendezvous  is  more  than  a  day's 
march,  the  bridegroom  gathers  his  friends 
as  much  sooner  as  is  necessary  to  enable 
them  to  be  with  the  bride  on  the  day  and 
hour  appointed.  Both  parties  are  exceed- 
ingly proud  of  the  numbers  and  of  the  rank 
which  their  influence  enables  them  to 
bring- ;  they  therefore  spare  no  pains  to 
render  the  gathering  of  their  friends  as  full 
and  as  respectable  as  possible.  The  com- 
pany of  each  party  dines  at  the  house  of 
their  respective  parents.  Every  attainable 
display  of  rustic  sumptuousness  and  rustic 
gallantry  is  made  to  render  the  festival 
worthy  of  an  occasion  which  can  happen 
but  once  in  a  life.  The  labour  and  the  care 
of  months  have  been  long  providing  the 
means  wherewith  to  furnish  the  feast  with 
plenty,  and  the  assistants  with  gayety  ;  and 
it  is  not  unfrequent  that  the 'savings  of  a 
whole  year  are  expended  to  do  honour  to 
this  single  day. 

When  the  house  is  small,  and  the  com- 
pany very  numerous,  the  partitions  are  fre- 
quently taken  down,  and  the  whole  "  biel  " 
thrown  into  one  space.  A  large  table,  the 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


294 


entire  length  of  the  house,  is  formed  of  deal 
planks  laid  upon  tressels,  and  covered  with 
a  succession  of  table-cloths,  white  though 
coarse.  The  quantity  of  the  dinner  is  an- 
swerable to  the  Space  which  it  is  to  cover : 
it  generally  consists  of  barley  broth,  or 
cock-a-leeky,  boiled  fowls,  roasted  ducks, 
•oints  of  meat,  sheep's  heads,  oat  and  barley 
cakes,  butter,  and  cheese  ;  and  in  summer, 
frothed  buttermilk,  and  slam.  In  the  glens 
where  goats  are  kept,  haunches  of  these 
animals  and  roasted  kids  are  also  added  to 
che  feast.  In  the  olrlen  time,  venison  and  all 
kinds  of  game,  from  the  cappercalich  to  the 
grouse,  were  also  furnished  ;  but  since  the 
breach  of  the  feudal  system,  and  its  privi- 
leges, the  highland  lairds  have  become  like 
other  proprietors  in  the  regulation  of  their 
game,  and  have  prohibited  its  slaughter  to 
their  tenants  upon  pain  of  banishment. 

Yet  the  cheer  of  the  dinner  is  not  so  re- 
markable as  the  gear  of  the  guests.  No 
stranger  who  looked  along  the  board  could 
recognise  in  their  "  braws  "  the  individuals 
whom  the  day  before  he  had  seen  in  the 
mill,  the  field,  or  the  "  smiddie."  The  men 
are  generally  dressed  to  the  best  of  their 
power  in  the  lowland  fashion.  There  are 
still  a  few  who  have  the  spirit,  and  who 
take  a  pride,  to  appear  in  the  noble  dress 
of  their  ancestors.  These  are  always  con- 
sidered as  an  honour  and  an  ornament  to 
the  day.  So  far  however  has  habit  altered  the 
custom  of  the  people,  even  against  their  own 
approbation,  that  notwithstanding  the  con- 
venience and  respect  attached  to  the  tar- 
tans, they  are  generally  laid  aside.  But 
though  the  men  are  nothing  deficient  in  the 
disposition  to  set  themselves  off  in  the  low- 
land fashions,  from  ihe  superior  expense  of 
cloth  and  other  materials  of  a  masculine 
dress,  they  are  by  no  means  so  gay  as  the 
lasses.  Girls,  who  the  yester  even  were 
seen  bare-headed  and  bare-footed,  lightly 
dressed  in  a  blue  flannel  petticoat  and  dark 
linen  jacket,  are  now  busked  in  white 
frocks,  riband  sashes,  cotton  stockings  on 
their  feet,  and  artificial  flowers  on  their 
heads.  The  "  merchant's5'  and  the  miller's 
daughters  frequently  exhibit  the  last  fashion 
from  Edinburgh,  and  are  beautified  and 
garnished  with  escalloped  trimmings,  tabbed 
sleeves,  tucks,  lace,  gathers,  and  French 
frills!  As  it  has  been  discovered  that 
tartan  is  nothing  esteemed  in  London,  little 
or  none  is  to  be  seen,  except  in  the  red 
plaid  or  broached  tunic  of  some  old  wife, 
whose  days  of  gaytty  are  past,  but  who  still 
loves  that  with  which  she  was  gay  in  her 
youth.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Dr.  Sa- 
muel Johnson  had  not  lived  to  witness 


these  dawnirgs  of  reason  and  Improvement; 
his  philosophical  mind  might  have  rejoiced 
in  the  symptoms  of  .approaching  "  civiliza- 
tion, ''  among  the  highlanders. 

The  hour  of  dinner  is  generally  about  one 
o'clock;  the  guests  are  assembling  for  two 
hours  before,  and  each  as  he  enters  is  pre- 
sented with  a  glass  of  "  uisga  "  by  way  of 
welcome.  When  the  company  is  seated, 
and  the  grace  has  been  said,  the  bottle 
makes  a  regular  round,  and  each  empties  a 
bumper  as  it  passes.  During  the  meal 
more  than  one  circle  is  completed  in  the 
same  manner  ;  and,  at  the  conclusion,  an- 
other revolutionary  libation  is  given  as  a 
finale.  As  soon  after  dinner  as  his  march 
will  allow,  the  bridegroom  arrives:  his  ap- 
proach is  announced  at  a  distance  by  a 
continual  and  running  discharge  of  fire- 
arms from  his  party.  These  signals  aie 
answered  by  the  friends  of  the  bride,  and 
when  at  length  they  meet,  a  general  but 
irregular  feu-de-joie  announces  the  arrival. 
The  bridegroom  and  his  escort  are  then  re- 
galed with  whiskey,  and  after  they  have 
taken  some  farther  refreshment  the  two  par 
ties  combine,  and  proceed  in  a  loose  pre- 
cession to  the  "  clachan." 

Sometimes,  and  particularly  if  there  hap- 
pens to  be  a  few  old  disbanded  sergeants 
among  them,  the  whole  "  gathering"  marches 
very  uniformly  in  pairs ;  and  there  is 
always  a  strict  regulation  in  the  support 
of  the  bride,  and  the  place  of  the  bride- 
groom and  his  party.  The  escort  of  the 
former  takes  precedency  in  the  procession, 
and  the  head  of  the  column  is  generally 
formed  of  the  most  active  and  best  armed 
of  her  friends,  led  by  their  pipes.  Imme- 
diately after  this  advanced  guard,  come  the 
bride  and  the  females  of  her  party,  accom- 
panied by  their  fathers,  brothers,  and  other 
friends.  The  bride  is  supported  on  one 
side  by  a  bridesman,  and  on  the  other  by  a 
bridesmaid  ;  her  arms  are  linked  in  theirs, 
and  from  the  right  and  left  hand  of  the 
supporters  is  held  a  white  scarf  or  hand- 
kerchief, which  depends  in  a  festoon  across 
the  figure  of  the  bride.  The  privilege  of 
supporting  the  bride  is  indispensably  con- 
fined to  the  bridesman  and  bridesmaid, 
and  it  would  be  an  unacceptable  pi^ce  of 
politeness  for  any  other  persons,  however 
high  their  rank,  to  offer  to  supply  their 
place.  The  bridegroom  and  his  party,  witk 
their  piper,  form  the  rear  of  the  procession, 
and  the  whole  is  closed  by  two  young  girls 
who  walk  last  at  the  airay,  bearing  in  a 
festoon  between  them  a  white  scarf,  simi'ai 
to  that  held  before  the  bride.  During  th« 
march  the  pipes  generally  play  the  olu 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


296 


Scots  air,  "  Fye,  lets  a'  to  the  Bridal,"  and 
the  parties  of  the  bride  and  brMegroom 
endeavour  to  emulate  each  other  in  the 
discharge  of  their  fire-arms.  In  this  order 
the  bridal  company  reaches  the  church,  and 
each  pipe  as  it  passes  the  gate  of  the  sur- 
rounding cemetry  becomes  silent.  In  the 
old  time  the  pipers  played  round  the  out- 
side of  the  clachan  during  the  performance 
of  the  service,  but  of  later  years  this  custom 
has  been  discontinued.  The  ritual  of  the 
mairiage  is  very  simple:  a  prayer  for  the 
happiness  and  guidance  of  the  young 
couple  who  are  about  to  enter  upon  the 
troubled  licle  of  life;  a  skort  exhortation 
upon  the  duties  of  the  station  which  they 
are  to  undertake,  and  a  benediction  by  the 
imposition  of  the  hands  of  the  minister,  is 
all  the  ceremonial  of  the  union,  and  an- 
nounces to  them  that  they  are  "  no  longer 
two,  but  one  flesh." 

In  the  short  days  of  winter,  and  when 
the  bridegroom  has  to  come  from  a  distance, 
it  is  very  frequent  that  the  ceremony  is  not 
performed  until  night  The  different  cir- 
cumstances of  the  occasion  are  then  doubly 
picturesque  and  affecting  :  while  the  caval- 
cade is  yet  at  a  distance,  the  plaintive  peal- 
ing of  the  pipes  approaching  upon  the  still- 
ness of  the  night,  the  fire-arms  flashing 
upon  the  darkness,  and  their  reports  re- 
doubled by  the  solitary  echoes  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  when,  at  length,  the  train  draws 
near,  the  mingled  tread  of  hasty  feet,  the 
full  clamour  of  the  pipes,  the  mixed  and 
confused  visionry  of  the  white  figures  of  the 
girls,  and  the  dark  shadows  of  the  men, 
with  here  and  there  the  waving  of  a  plaid 
and  the  glinting  of  a  dirk,  must  be  striking 
to  a  stranger,  but  wake  inexpressible  emo- 
tions in  the  bosom  of  a  Gael,  who  loves  the 
people  and  the  customs  of  his  land. 

The  scene  is  still  more  impressive  at  the 
clachan.  I  have  yet  before  me  the  groups 
of  the  last  wedding  at  which  I  was  present 
in  the  highlands.  The  churcK  was  dimly 
lighted  for  the  occasion ;  beneath  the  pulpit 
stood  the  minister,  upon  whose  head  eighty- 
five  winters  had  left  their  trace :  his  thinned 
hair,  bleached  like  the  "cana,"  hung  in  ring- 
lets on  his  neck;  and  the  light  falling 
feebly  from  above,  shed  a  silvery  gleam 
across  his  lofty  forehead  and  pale  features, 
as  he  lifted  his  look  towards  heaven,  and 
stretched  his  hands  above  the  betrothed 
pair  who  stood  before  him.  The  bride- 
groom, a  hardy  young  highlander,  the  fox- 
hunter  of  the  district,  was  dressed  in  the 
.lull  'a  tans;  and  the  bride,  the  daughter  of 
a  neighbouring  shepherd,  was  simply  at- 
tiretl  m  white,  with  a  buncli  of  white  roses 


in  her  hair.  The  dark  cheek  and  keen  eye 
of  the  hunter  deepened  its  hue  and  its  light 
as  he  held  the  hand  which  had  been  placed 
in  his,  while  the  downcast  face  of  the  bride 
scarcely  showed  distinctly  more  than  her  far. 
forehead  and  temples,  and  seemed,  as  the 
light  shone  obliquely  upon  them,  almost  as 
pale  as  the  roses  which  she  wore  ;  her  slim 
form  bent  upon  the  supporting  arm  of  the 
bridesmaid  —  the  white  frill  about  her 
neck  throbbing  with  a  light  and  quick 
vibration. 

After  the  ceremony  of  the  marriage  is 
concluded,  it  is  the  privilege  of  the  brides- 
man to  salute  the  bride.  As  the  party 
leave  the  church,  the  pipes  again  strike  up, 
and  the  whole  company  adjourns  to  the 
next  inn,  or  to  the  house  of  some  relation 
of  the  bride's ;  for  it  is  considered  "  un- 
lucky "  for  her  own  to  be  the  first  which 
she  enters.  Before  she  crosses  the  thresh- 
old, an  oaten  cake  is  broken  over  her  head 
by  the  bridesman  and  bridesmaid,  and  dis- 
tributed to  the  company,  and  a  glass  of 
whiskey  passes  round.  The  whole  party 
then  enter  the  house,  and  two  or  three 
friends  of  the  bridegroom,  who  act  as  mas- 
ters of  the  ceremonies,  pass  through  the 
room  with  a  bottle  of  whiskey,  and  pour 
out  to  each  individual  a  glass  to  the  health 
of  the  bride,  the  bridegroom,  and  their 
clans.  Dancing  then  commences  to  the 
music  of  the  pipes,  and  the  new-married 
couple  lead  off  the  first  reel.  It  is  a  cus- 
tomary compliment  for  the  person  of  highest 
rank  in  the  room  to  accompany  her  in  the 
next.  During  the  dancing  the  whiskey- 
bottle  makes  a  revolution  at  intervals  ;  and 
after  the  reels  and  strathspeys  have  been 
kept  up  for  some  time,  the  company  re- 
tires to  supper.  The  fare  of  the  supper 
differs  little  from  that  of  the  dinner;  and 
the  rotation  of  the  whiskey-bottle  is  as 
regular  as  the  s\m  which  it  follows. 

[At  highland  festivals  the  bottle  is  always 
circulated  sun-ways,  an  observance  which 
had  its  rise  in  the  Druidical  "  deas'oil,"  and 
once  regulated  almost  every  action  of  the 
Celts.] 

When  the  supper  is  announced,  each 
man  leads  his  partner  or  some  female  friend 
to  the  table,  and  seating  himself  at  her  side, 
takes  upon  himself  her  particular  charge 
during1  the  meal;  and  upon  such  occasions, 
as  the  means  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
do  not  permit  them  to  bear  the  expenses  of 
the  supper,  he  is  expected  to  pay  her  share 
of  the  reckoning  as  well  as  his  own.  After 
supper  the  dancing  again  commences,  and 
is  occasionally  inspired  by  the  before- 
noticed  circumvolutions  of  the  "  Uisga  na 


207 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


Baidh."  The  bride  and  bridegroom,  and 
such  as  choose  repose  rather  than  merri- 
ment, teure  to  take  a  couple  of  hours'  rest 
hefore  dawn ;  but  the  majority  keep  up  the 

anting  till  day.  Towards  morning  many 
of  the  company  begin  to  disperse;  and 
when  it  is  well  light,  breakfast  is  given  to 
all  who  remain.  Tea,  multitudes  of  eggs, 
cold  meat,  a  profusion  of  oat  cakes,  barley 
it  stones,"  arid  sometimes  wheat  bread, 

brought,  perhaps,  a  distance  of  thirty  miles, 
constitute  the  good  cheer  of  this  meal.  When 
it  is  concluded,  the  bride  takes  leave  of  the 
majority  of  her  friends,  and  accompanied 
oniy  by  her  particular  intimates  and  rela- 
tions, sets  off  with  the  bridegroom  and  his 
parly  for  her  future  residence.  She  is  ac- 
companied by  her  neighbours  to  the  march 
of  her  father,  or  the  tacksman  under  whom 
he  lives,  and  at  the  burn-side  (for  such  is 
generally  the  boundary)  they  dance  a 
parting  reel :  when  it  is  concluded,  the 
oride  kisses  her  friends,  they  return  to  their 
dwellings,  and  -slie  departs  for  her  new 
nome.  When,  however,  the  circumstances 
of  the  bridegroom  will  permit,  all  those 
wno  were  present  at  the  house  of  the  bride, 
are  generally  invited  to  accompany  her  on 
ner  way,  and  a  renewal  of  the  preceding 
festivities  takes  place  at  the  dwelling  of 
the  bridegroom.  , 

Upon  these  occasions  it  is  incredible  the 
fatigue  which  the  youngest  girls  will  un- 
dergo :  of  this  one  instance  will  give  a 
sufficient  proof.  At  a  wedding  which  hap- 
pened at  Cladich  by  Loch  Awe  side,  there 
were  present  as  bridesmaids,  two  girls,  not 
above  fourteen  years  of  age,  who  had 
walked  to  the  bridal  from  Inbherara,  a  dis- 
tance of  nine  miles.  They  attended  the 
bride  to  the  clachan  of  Inishail,  and  back  to 
her  father's  house,  which  is  four  miles  far- 
ther. During  the  night  none  were  more 
blithe  in  the  dance,  and  in  the  morning 
after  breakfast  they  accompanied  the  rest 
of  the  party  to  the  house  of  the  bridegroom 
at  Tighndrum  ;  the  distance  of  this  place  is 
eighteen  miles  :  and  thus,  when  they  ha»l 
finished  their  journey,  the  two  young  brides- 
maids had  walked,  without  rest,  and  under 
the  fatigue  of  dancing,  a  distance  of  thirty- 
one  miles. 

Such  is  the  general  outline  of  a  highland 
wedding.  In  some  districts,  a  few  other  of 
the  ancient  customs  are  yet  retained  :  the 
throwing  of  the  stocking  is  sometimes 
practised  ;  but  the  blessing  of  the  bridal 
couch  disappeared  with  the  religion  of  the 
popes.* 

*  Note  fo  tlie  Bridal  of  Cafilchairn,  by  J.  H.  Allan. 
Fgq. 


FLINGING  THE  STOCKING. 

Mr.  Brand  collects  a  variety  of  par- 
ticulars respecting  this  wedding  custom. 

A  curious  little  book,  entitled  "  The 
West -country  Clothier  undone  by  a  Pea- 
cock," says,  "  The  sack-posset  must  b? 
eaten  and  the  stocking  flung,  to  see  who  can 
first  hit  the  bridegroom  on  the  nose."  Mis- 
son,  a  traveller  in  England  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  last  century,  relates,  concerning 
this  usage,  that  the  young  men  took  the 
bride's  stocking,  and  the  girls  those  of  the 
bridegroom ;  each  of  whom,  sitting  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  threw  the  stocking  over 
their  heads,  endeavouring  to  make  it  fall 
upon  that  of  the  bride,  or  her  spouse  :  if 
the  bridegroom's  stockings,  thrown  by  the 
girls,  fell  upon  the  bridegroom's  head,  it 
was  a  sign  that  they  themselves  would  soon 
be  married  :  and  a  similar  prognostic  was 
taken  from  the  falling  of  the  bride's  stock- 
ing, thrown  by  the  young  men.  The  usage 
is  related  to  the  same  effect  in  a  work  en- 
titled "  Hymen,"  &c.  (8vo.  1760.)  "  The 
men  take  the  bride's  stockings,  and  the 
women  those  of  the  bridegroom  :  they  then 
seat  themselves  at  the  bed's  feet,  and  throw 
the  stockings  over  their  heads,  and  when- 
ever any  ore  hits  the  owner  of  them,  it  is 
looked  upon  as  an  omen  that  the  person 
will  be  married  in  a  short  time:  and  though 
this  ceremony  is  looked  upon  as  mere  play 
and  foolery,  new  marriages  are  often  occa- 
sioned by  such  accidents.  Meantime  the 
posset  is  got  ready  and  given  to  the  married 
couple.  When  they  awake  in  the  morn- 
ing, a  sack-posset  is  also  given  them."  A 
century  before  this,  in  a  "  A  Sing-Song  on 
Clarinda's  Wedding,"  in  R.  Fletcher's 
"Translations  and  Poems,  1656,''  is  the 
following  stanza : — 

"  This  clutter  ore,  Clarinda  lay 
Half-bedded,  like  the  peeping  day 

Behind  Olimpus"  cap ; 
Whiles  at  her  head  each  twitt'ring  girle 
The  fatal  stocking  quick  did  whirle 

To  know  the  lucky  hap." 

And  the  "Progress  of  Matrimony,     in 
"  The  Palace  Miscellany,"  1733,  says. 

"  Then  come  all  the  younger  folk  in, 
With  ceremony  throw  the  stocking ; 
Backward,  o'er  head,  in  turn  they  toss'd  it, 
Till  in  sack-posset  they  had  lost  it. 
Th'  intent  of  flinging  thus  the  hose. 
Is  to  hit  him  or  her  o'  th'  nose: 
Who  hits  the  mark,  thus,  o'er  left  shoulder 
Must  married  be,  ere  twelve  months  older.' 

This   adventuring  against  the  most  j.-ro- 
minent  feature  of  the  face  is  further  men- 


299 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


300 


tkntt'  in  "The  Country  Wedding,"  a 
pocin,  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  for 
March  1735,  vol.  v.  p.  158. 

"  Bid  the  lasses  and  lads  to  the  merry  brown  bowl, 
While  rashers  of  bacon  shall  smoke  on  the  coal : 
Then  Roger  and  Bridget,  and  Robin  and  Nan, 
Hit  'em  e.ach  on  the  nose,  with  the  hose  if  you  can." 

Dunton's  "British  Apollo,"  1708,  con- 
tains a  question  and  answer  concerning 
this  old  usage. 

"  Q.  Apollo,  say,  whence  'tis  I  pray. 

The  ancient  custom  came. 
Stockings  to  throw  (I'm  sure  you  know) 
At  bridegroom  and  his  dame  ? 

"  A   When  Britons  bold,  bedded  of  old, 

Sandals  were  backward  thrown  ; 
The  pair  to  tell,  that,  ill  or  well. 
The  act  was  all  their  own." 

If  a  more  satisfactory  explanation  of  the 
custom  could  be  found,  it  should  be  at  the 
reader's  service.  The  practice  prevails  on 
the  continent  as  well  as  in  this  country, 
hut  its  origin  is  involved  in  obscurity. 


<§arrirft 


No.  VII. 

[From  "  Fortune  by  Land  and  Sea,"  a 
Comedy,  by  T.  Heywood,  and  W.  Row- 
ley, 1655.] 

Old  Forest  forbids  his  Son  to  sup  with 
tome  riotous  gallants  ;  who  goes  notwith- 
standing,  and  is  slain. 

Scene,  a  Tavern. 

Roiniworth,  Foster,  Goodwin.     To  them  enterl  Frank 
Forest. 

Rain.  Now,  Frank,  how  stole  you  from  your  father's 

arms? 

You  have  been  school'd,  no  doubt    Fie,  fie  upon't. 
Ere  I  would  live  in  such  base  servitude 
To  an  old  greybeard  ;  "sfoot,  I'd  hang  myself. 
A  man  cannot  be  merry,  and  drink  drunk, 
But  he  must  be  control'd  by  gravity. 

Frank.  0  pardon  him  ;  you  know,  he  is  my  fatter, 
And  what  he  doth  is  but  paternal  love. 
Though  I  be  wild,  I'm  not  yet  so  past  reason 
His  person  to  despise,  though  I  his  counsel 
Cannot  severely  follow. 

Bain.  'Sfoot,  he  is  a  fool. 

Frank.  A  fool  1  you  are  a  — 

Fast.  Nay,  gentlemen  — 

Frank.  Yet  I  restrain  my  tongur. 
Hoping  yon  t-peak  out  of  some  spleenful  rn-hness, 
And  no  deliberate  malice  ;  and  it  may  b« 
YOM  are  sorry  that  a  word  so  unreverent, 


To  wrong  so  good  an  aged  gentleman, 
Should  pass  you  unawares. 

Rain.  Sorry,  Sir  Boy  !  you  will  not  take  exceptions  ? 

Frank.  Not  against  you  with  willingness,  whom  I 
Have  loved  so  long.     Yet  you  might  think  me  a 
Most  dutiless  and  ungracious  son  to  give 
Smooth  countenance  unto  my  father's  wrong. 
Come,  I  dare  swear 

•Twas  not  your  malice,  and  I  take  it  so. 
Let's  frame  some  other  talk.     Hear,  gentlemen — 

Rain.    But  hear  me,  Boy !   it  seems,  Sir,  you  arc 
angry— 

Frank.  Not  thoroughly  yet — 

Rain.  Then  what  would  anger  thee  ? 

Frank.  Nothing  from  you. 

Rain.  Of  all  things  under  heaven 
What  would'st  thou  loathest  have  me  do  ? 

Frank.  1  would 

Not  have  you  wrong  my  reverent  father ;  and 
I  hope  you  will  not. 

Rain.  Thy  father's  an  old  dotard. 

Frank.  I  would  not  brook  this  at  a  monarch's  hand, 
Much  less  at  thine. 

Rain.  Aye,  Boy  ?  then  take  you  that. 

Frank.  Oh  I  am  slain. 

Good.  Sweet  Cuz,  what  have  you  done?    Shift  fo* 
yourself. 

Ram.  Away. —  Exeunt. 

Enter  Two  Drawers. 

1st  Dr.  Stay  the  gentlemen,  they  have  killed  a  mac 
O  sweet  Mr.  Francis.  One  run  to  his  father's. 

2d  Dr.  Hark,  hark,  I  hear  his  father's  voice  below 
'tis  ten  to  one  he  is  come  to  fetch  him  home  to  suppet 
and  now  he  may  carry  him  home  to  his  grave. 

Enter  the  Host,  old  Forest,  and  Susan  his  daughter 

Host.  You  must  take  comfort,  Sir. 

For.  Is  he  dead,  is  he  dead,  girl? 

Sus.  Oh  dead,  Sir,  Frank  is  dead. 

For.  Alas,  alas,  my  boy !  I  have  not  the  heart 
To  look  upon  his  wide  and  gaping  wounds. 
Pray  tell  me,  Sir,  does  this  appear  to  yon 
Fearful  and  pitiful — to  yon  that  are 
A  stranger  to  my  aead  boy  ? 

Host.  How  can  it  otherwise  ? 

For.  O  me  most  wretched  of  all  wretched  men  I 
If  to  a  stranger  his  warm  bleeding  wounds 
Appear  so  grisly  and  so  lamentable. 
How  will  they  seem  to  me  that  am  his  father? 
Will  they  not  hale  my  eye-brows  from  their  r»und*. 
And  with  an  everlasting  blindness  strike  them  ? 

Sta.  Oh,  Sir,  look  here. 

For.  Dost  Ion?  to  have  me  blind  ? 
Then  I'll  behold  them,  since  I  know  thy  mind. 
Oh  me  ! 

Is  this  my  son  that  doth  so  senseless  lie. 
And  swims  in  blood  ?  my  soul  shall  fly  with  his 
Unto  the  land  of  rest.     Behold  I  crave, 
Being  kill'd  with  grief,  we  both  may  have  one  grave. 

Sut.  Alas,  my  father's  dead  too!  gentle  Sir, 
Help  to  retire  his  spirits,  over  travaij'd 
With  age  and  sorrow. 

Host.  Mr.  Forest— 


30) 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


302 


S-«   Father— 

For.  What  says  my  girl  ?  good  mo  -row.    What's  a 

clock. 

That  you  are  up  so  early?  call  up  Frank ; 
Tell  him  he  lies  too  long  a  bed  this  morning. 
He  was  wont  to  call  the  sun  up,  and  to  raise 
The  early  lark,  and  mount  her  'mongst  the  clouds. 
Will  he  not  np  ?  rise,  rise,  thou  sluggish  boy. 

Sus.  Alas,  he  cannot,  father. 

For.  Cannot,  why  ? 

Sttt.  Do  you  not  see  tis  bloodless  colour  pale  ? 

Fur.  Perhaps  he's  sickly,  that  he  looks  so  pale. 

Sus.  Do  you  not  feel  his  pulse  no  motion  keep. 
How  still  he  lies  ? 

For.  Then  is  he  fast  asleep. 

$tu.  Do  you  not  see  his  fatal  eyelid  close  ? 

For.  Speak  softly;  hinder  not  his  soft  repose. 

Sus.  Oh  see  you  not  these  purple  conduits  ruii  ? 
Know  you  these  wounds  ? 

For.  Oh  me  1  ray  murder'd  son  1 

Enter  young  Mr.  Forett. 

Y.  For.  Sister  1 

Sus.  O  brother,  brother  ! 

Y.  For.  Father,  how  cheer  you,  Sir  ?  why,  you  were 

wont 

To  store  for  others  comfort,  that  by  sorrow 
Were  any  ways  distress'd.    Hare  you  all  wasted, 
And  spared  none  to  yourself? 

0.  For.  O  Son,  Son,  Son, 
See,  alas,  see  where  thy  brother  lies. 
He  dined  with  me  to  day,  was  merry,  merry, 
Aye,  that  corpse  was ;  he  that  lies  here,  see  here. 
Thy  murder'd  brother  and  m.y  son  was.    Oh  see, 
Dost  thou  not  weep  for  him  ? 

Y.  For.  I  shall  find  time  ; 
When  you  have  took  some  comfort,  I'll  begin 
To  monrn  his  death,  and  scourge  the  murderer's  sin. 

0.  For.  Oh,  when  saw  father  such  a  tragic  sight. 
And  did  outlive  it  ?  never,  son,  ah  never, 
From  mortal  breast  ran  such  a  precious  river. 

Y.  For.  Come,  father,  and  dear  sister,  join  with  me ; 
Let  us  all  learn  our  sorrows  to  forget. 
He  owed  a  death,  and  he  hath  paid  that  debt. 

If  I  were  to  be  consulted  as  to  a  Re- 
print of  our  Old  English  Dramatists,  I 
should  advise  to  begin  with  the  collected 
°lays  of  Hey  wood.  He  was  a  fellow  Actor, 
ind  fellow  Dramatist,  with  Shakspeare. 
He  possessed  not  the  imagination  of  the 
latter ;  but  in  all  those  qualities  which 
gained  for  Shakspeare  the  attribute  of 
gentle,  he  was  not  interior  to  him.  Gene- 
rosity, courtesy,  temperance  in  the  depths 
of  passion  ;  sweetness,  in  a  word,  and  gen- 
tleness ;  Christianism ;  and  true  hearty 
Anglicism  of  feelings,  shaping  that  Chris- 
tianism ;  shine  throughout  his  beautiful 
writings  in  a  manner  more  conspicuous 
than  in  those  of  Shakspeare,  but  only  more 
conspicuous  inasmuch  as  in  Heywood  these 
qualities  are  primary ,in  the  other  subordinate 
»o  poetry.  I  love  them  both  equally,  but 


Shakspeare  has  most  of  my  wonder.  Hey- 
wood should  be  known  to  his  countrymen, 
as  he  deserves.  His  plots  are  almost  inva- 
riably English.  I  am  sometimes  jealous, 
that  Shakspeare  laid  so  few  of  his  scenes  at 
home.  I  laud  Ben  Jonson,  for  that  in  one 
instance  having  framed  the  first  draught  of 
his  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  in  Italy, 
he  changed  the  scene,  and  Anglicised  his 
characters.  The  names  of  them  in  the 
First  Edition,  may  not  be  unamusing. 

Men. 

Lorenzo,  Sen. 
Lorenzo,  Jun. 
Prospero. 
Thorello. 


Women. 
Guilliaua. 
Biaucha. 
Hesperida. 
Tib  (the  same  in  English.. 


Stephano  (Master  Stephen.) 

Dr.  Clement  (Justice  Clement.) 

Bobadilla  (Bobadil.) 

Musco. 

Cob  (the  same  in  English.) 

Peto. 

Pizo. 

Matheo  (Master  Mathew.) 

How  say  you,  Reader?  do  not  Master 
Kitely,  Mistress  Kitely,  Master  Kiiowell, 
Brainworm,  &c.  read  better  than  these  Cis- 
alpines  ? 

C.L. 


St'IIp  Bootsf. 

For  the  Table  Book. 

On  January  6th,   1815,  died  at   Lynn 
Norfolk,  at  an   advanced   age,    (supposed 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


301 


about  seventy,  this  eccentric  individual, 
whose  proper  name,  William  Monson,  had 
oecoine  nearly  obliterated  by  his  profes- 
sional appellation  of  Billy  Boots  ;  having 
followed  the  humble  employment  of  shoe- 
olack  for  a  longer  period  than  the  greater 
part   of  the  inhabitants  could  remember. 
He  was  reported,  (and  he  always  professed 
himself  to  be,)  the  illegitimate  son  of  a 
nobleman,  whose  name  he  bore,  by  a  Miss 
Cracroft.  Of  his  early  days  little  is  known, 
except  from  the  reminiscences  of  conversa- 
tion which  the  writer  of  this  article  at  times 
held  with  him.     From  thence  it  appears, 
that  having  received  a  respectable  educa- 
tion, soon  after  leaving  school,  he  quitted 
his  maternal   home   in   Lincolnshire,  and 
threw  himself  upon  the  world,  from  whence 
he  was  sought  out  by  some  of  his  paternal 
brothers,  with  the  intention   of  providing 
and  fixing  him  in  comfortable  circumstan- 
ces ;  but  this  dependent  life  he  abhorred, 
and  the  wide  world  was  again  his  element. 
After     experiencing     many     vicissitudes, 
(though    possessing   defects   never    to    be 
overcome, — a  diminutive  person, — a  shuf- 
fling, slip-shod  gait, — and  a  weak,  whining 
voice,)  he  joined  a  company  of  strolling 
players,  and  used  to  boast  of  having  per- 
formed-"Trueman,"  in  "  George  Barnwell :" 
from  this  he  imbibed   an  ardent  histrionic 
cacoethes,  which  never  left  him,  but  occu- 
pied many  of  his  leisure  moments,  to  the 
latest  period  of  his  life.    Tired  of  rambling, 
he  fixed  his  residence  at  Lynn,  and  adopt- 
ing the  useful  vocation  of  shoe-blank,  be- 
came conspicuous  as  a  sober,  inoffensive, 
and    industrious   individual.     Having,   by 
these  means,  saved  a  few  guineas,  in  a  luck- 
less hour,  and  when  verging  towards  his 
fiftieth  year,  he  took   to  himself  a  wife,  a 
darhing  female  of  more  favourable  appear- 
ance than  reputation.    In  a  fews  days  from 
the  tying  of  the  gordian  knot,  his  precious 
metal  and  his  precious  rib  took  flight  to- 
gether, never  to  return ;  and  forsaken  Billy 
whined  away  his  disaster,  to  every  pitying 
inquirer,  and  continued  to  brush  and  spout 
till    time   had    blunted   the   keeu   edge  of 
sorrow. 

Notwithstanding  this  misfortune,  Billy 
made  no  rash  vow  of  forswearing  the  sex, 
but  ogled  every  mop-squeezer  in  the  town, 
who  would  listen  to  his  captivating  elo- 
quence, and  whenever  a  roguish  Blousa- 
linoi  consented  to  encourage  his  addresses, 
he  was  seen  early  an  1  late,  like  a  true  de- 
votee snuffing  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of 
his  devotions.  In  a  summer  evening  after 
the  labour  of  the  day,  on  these  occasions, 
and  on  these  occasions  only,  he  used  to 


clean  himself  and  spruce  up,  in  his  best 
suit,  which  was  not  improperly  termed  his 
courting  suit — a  worn-out  scarlet  coat, 
reaching  to  his  heels,  with  buttons  of  the 
largest  dimensione— the  other  part  of  his 
dress  corresponding.  When  tired  of  the 
joke,  his  faithless  inamorata,  on  some  frivo- 
lous pretence,  contrived  to  discard  him, 
leaving  him  to  "  fight  his  battles  o'er  again," 
and  seek  some  other  bewitching  fair  one, 
who  in  the  end  served  him  as  the  former  ; 
another  and  another  succeeded,  but  still 
poor  Billy  was  ever  jilted,  and  still  lived  a 
devoted  victim  to  the  tender  passion. 

Passionately  fond  of  play-books,  of  which 
he  had  a  small  collection — as  uninviting  to 
the  look  as  himself  in  his  working  dress — 
and  possessing  a  retentive  memory,  he 
would  recite,  not  merely  the  single  charac- 
ter, but  whole  scenes,  with  all  the  dramatis 
personse.  His  favourite  character,  however, 
was  "  Shylock ;"  and  here,  when  soothed 
and  flattered,  he  exhibited  a  rich  treat  to 
his  risible  auditors  in  the  celebrated  trial 
scene,  giving  the  entire  dialogue,  suiting 
the  action  and  attitude  to  the  words,  in  a 
style  of  the  most  perfect  caricatural  origi- 
nality. At  other  times,  he  would  select 
"  The  Waterman,"  and,  as  "  Tom  Tug," 
warble  forth,  "Then  farewell  my  trim-built 
wherry,"  in  strains  of  exquisitely  whining 
melody.  But,  alas !  luckless  wight !  his 
only  reward  was  ridicule,  and  for  applause 
he  had  jokes  and  quizzing  sarcasms. 

Like  most  of  nature's  neglected  eccen- 
trics, Billy  was  a  public  mark  of  derision, 
at  which  every  urchin  delighted  to  aim. 
When  charges  of  "  setting  the  river  Thames 
on  fire  !"  and  "  roasting  his  wife  on  a  grid- 
vron  !"  were  vociferated  in  his  ears,  proudly 
conscious  of  his  innocence  of  such  heinous 
crimes,  his  noble  soul  would  swell  with 
^age  and  indignation;  and  sometimes  stones, 
at  other  times  his  brushes,  and  oftentimes 
his  pot  of  blacking,  were  aimed  at  the 
ruthless  offender,  who  frequently  escaped, 
while  the  unwary  passer-by  received  the 
marks  of  his  vengeance.  When  unmolested, 
he  was  harmless  and  inoffensive. 

Several  attempts,  it  is  said,  were  made 
towards  the  latter  part  of  his  life  to  settle 
an  annuity  on  him;  but  Billy  scorned  such  ' 
independence,  and  maintained  himself  till 
death  by  praiseworthy  industry.  After  a 
few  days'  illness,  he  sank  into  the  grave, 
unhonoured  and  unnoticed,  except  by  the 
following  tribute  to  his  memory,  written  by 
a  literary  and  agricultural  gentleman  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Lynn,  and  inserted  iu 
the  "  Norwich  Mercury"  newspaper  of  that 
period.  j£. 


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ELEGIAC  LINES  ON  WILLIAM  MONSON, 
LATE  OF  LYMN,  AN  ECCENTRIC  CHARAC- 
TER; COMMONLY  Y'CLEPT  BILLY  BOOTS. 

Imperial  Fate,  who,  with  promiscuous  course, 
Exerts  o'er  high  and  low  his  influence  dread  ; 

Impell'd  his  shaft  with  unrelenting  force, 
And  laid  thee,  Billy,  'mongst  the  mighty  dead  ! 

Yet  "though,  when  borne  to  thy  sepulchral  home, 
No  pomp  funereal  grac'd  thy  poor  remains, 

Some  "  frail  memorial  "  should  adorn  thy  tomb, 
Some  trifling  tribute  from  th'e  Muse's  strains. 

Full  fifty  years,  poor  Billy  1  hast  thou  budg'd, 
A  care-worn  shoe-black,  up  and  down  the  streets ; 

From  house  to  house,  with  slip-shod  step  hast  trudg'd, 
'Midst  summer's  rays,  and  winter's  driving  sleets. 

Report  allied  thee  to  patrician  blood, 

Yet,  whilst  thy  life  to  drudg'ry  was  confin'd, 

Thy  firmness  each  dependent  thought  withstood, 
And  prov'd, — thy  true  nebility  of  mind. 

With  shuffling,  lagging  gait,  with  visage  queer, 
Which  seem'd  a  stranger  to  ablution's  pow'r, 

In  tatter'd  garb,  well  suited  to  thy  sphere, 
Thou  o'er  life's  stage  didst  strut  thy  fretful  hour. 

O'er  boots  and  shoes,  to  spread  the  jetty  hue, 
And  give  the  gloss, — thou  Billy,  wert  the  man, 

No  boasting  rivals  could  thy  skill  outdo — 
Not  "  Day  and  Martin,"  with  their  fam'd  japan. 

On  men  well-bred  and  perfectly  refin'd, 
An  extra  polish  conld  thine  art  bestow  ; 

At  feast  or  ball,  thy  varnish'd  honeurs  shin'd, 
Made  spruce  the  trader,  and  adorn'd  the  beau. 

When  taunting  boys,  whom  no  reproof  could  tame, 

On  thee  their  scoffs  at  cautious  distance  shed, 
A  shoe  or  brush,  impetuous  wouldst  thou  aim, 
»      Wing'd  with  resentment,  at  some  urchin's  bead. 

With  rage  theatric  often  didst  thon  glow, 
(Though  ill  adapted  for  the  scenic  art ;) 

As  Denmark's  prince  soliloquiz'd  in  woe, 
Or  else  rehears'd  vindictive  Shylock's  part. 

Brushing  and  spouting,  emulous  of  fame, 

Oft  pocketing  affronts  instead  of  cash, 
.n  logo's  phrase,  sometimes  thou  might'st  exclaim 

With  too  much  truth, — "  who  steals  my  pnree  steals 
trash." 

Peace  to  thine  ashes  !  harmless  in  thy  way, 
Long  wert  thou  emp'ror  of  the  shoe-black  train, 

And  with  thy  fav'rite  Shakspeare  we  may  nay, 
We  "ne'er  shall  look  upon  thy  like  again." 


2Brama. 

"  THE  GREAT  UNKNOWN  » 
KNOWN. 

Friday  the  23d  of  February,  1827,  is  tc  be 
regarded  as  remarkable,  because  on  that  day 
"  The  Great  Unknown"  confessed  himself. 
The  disclosure  was  made  at  the  first  annual 
dinner  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Theatrical 
Fund,"  then  held  in  the  Assembly  Rooms, 
Edinburgh — :Sir  WALTER  SCOTT  in  the 
chair. 

Sir  WALTER  SCOTT,  after  the  usual  toasts 
to  the  King  and  the  Royal  Family,  re- 
quested, that  gentlemen  would  fill  a  bum- 
per as  full  as  it  would  hold,  while  he  would 
say  only  a  few  words.  He  was  in  the  habit 
of  hearing  speeches,  and  he  knew  the  feel- 
ing with  which  long  ones  were  regarded. 
He  was  sure  that  it  was  perfectly  unneces- 
sary for  him  to  enter  into  any  vindication  of 
the  dramatic  art,  which  they  had  come  here 
to  support.  This,  however,  he  considered 
to  be  the  proper  time  and  proper  occasion 
for  him  to  say  a  few  words  on  that  love  of 
representation  which  was  an  innate  feeling 
in  human  nature.  It  was  the  first  amuse- 
ment that  the  child  had — it  grew  greater  as 
he  grew  up ;  and,  even  in  the  decline  of 
life,  nothing  amused  so  much  as  when  a 
common  tale  is  well  told.  The  first  thing 
a  child  does  is  to  ape  his  schoolmaster,  by 
flogging  a  chair.  It  was  an  enjoyment  na- 
tural to  humanity.  It  was  implanted  in 
our  very  nature,  to  take  pleasure  from  such 
representations,  at  proper  times,  and  on 
proper  occasions.  In  all  ages  the  theatri- 
cal art  had  kept  pace  with  the  improvement 
of  mankind,  and  with  the  progress  of  letters 
and  the  fine  arts.  As  he  had  advanced 
from  the  ruder  stages  of  society,  the  love  of 
dramatic  representations  had  increased,  and 
all  works  of  this  nature  had  been  improved 
in  character  and  in  structure.  They  had 
only  to  turn  their  eyes  to  the  history  of  an- 
cient Greece,  although  he  did  not  pretend 
to  be  very  deeply  versed  in  ancient  history. 
Its  first  tragic  poet  commanded  a  body  of 
troops  at  Marathon.  The  second  and  next, 
were  men  who  shook  Athens  with  their 
discourses,  as  their  theatrical  works  shock 
the  theatre  itself.  If  they  turned  to  F.'&r-ce, 
in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.,  that  ere.  hi 
the  classical  history  of  that  countryv  they 
would  find  that  it  was  referred  tc  by  ull 
Frenchmen  as  the  golden  age  of  the  dranx 
there.  And  also  in  England,  in  the  tiir.c 
of  queen  Elizabeth,  the  drama  began  to 
mingle  deeply  and  wisely  in  the  geserz. 
politics  of  Europe,  not  only  not  receiving 


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308 


laws  from  others,  but  giving  laws  to  the 
world,  and  vindicating  the  nghts  of  man- 
Kind.  (Cheers.")  There  had  been  various 
times  when  the  dramatic  art  subsequently 
fell  into  disrepute.  Its  professors  had  been 
stigmatized :  and  laws  had  been  passed 
against  them,  less  dishonourable  to  them 
than  to  the  statesmen  by  whom  they  were 
proposed,  and  to  the  legislators  by  whom 
they  were  passed.  What  were  the  times  in 
which  these  laws  were  passed?  Was  it  not 
when  virtue  was  seldom  inculcated  as  a 
moral  duty,  that  we  were  required  to  relin- 
quish the  most  rational  of  all  our  amuse- 
ments, when  the  clergy  were  enjoined 
celibacy,  and  when  the  laity  were  denied 
the  right  to  read  their  Bibles  ?  He  thought 
that  it  must  have  been  from  a  notion  of 
penance  that  they  erected  the  drama  into  an 
ideal  place  of  profaneness,  and  the  tent  of 
sin.  He  did  not  mean  to  dispute,  that 
there  were  many  excellent  persons  who 
thought  differently  from  him,  and  they  were 
entitled  to  assume  that  they  were  not  guilty 
of  any  hypocrisy  in  doing  so.  He  gave 
them  full  credit  for  their  tender  consciences, 
in  making  these  objections,  which  did  not 
appear  to  him  relevant  to  those  persons, 
if  they  were  what  they  usurped  themselves 
to  be  ;  and  if  they  were  persons  of  worth 
and  piety,  he  should  crave  the  liberty  to  tell 
them,  that  the  first  part  of  their  duty  was 
charity,  and  that  if  they  did  not  choose  to 
go  to  the  theatre,  they  at  least  could  not 
deny  that  they  might  give  away,  from  their 
superfluity,  what  was  required  for  the  relief 
of  the  sick,  the  support  of  the  aged,  and 
the  comfort  of  the  afflicted.  These  were 
duties  enjoined  by  our  religion  itself. 
(Loud  cheers.}  The  performers  were  in  a 
particular  manner  entitled  to  the  support  or 
regard,  when  in  old  age  or  distress,  of  those 
who  had  partaken  of  the  amusements  of 
those  places  which  they  rendered  an  orna- 
ment to  society.  Their  art  was  of  a  pecu- 
liarly delicate  and  precarious  nature.  They 
had  to  serve  a  long  apprenticeship.  It  was 
very  long  before  even  the  first-rale  geniuses 
could  acquire  the  mechanical  knowledge  of 
the  stage  business.  They  must  languish 
long  in  obscurity  before  they  could  avail 
themseJves  of  their  natural  talents ;  and 
after  that,  they  had  but  a  short  space  of 
time,  during  which  they  were  fortunate  if 
they  couid  provide  the  means  of  comfort  in 
the  decline  of  life.  That  came  late,  and 
lasted  but  a  short  time ;  after  which  they 
were  ieft  dependent.  Their  limbs  failed, 
their  teeth  were  loosened,  their  voice  was 
lost,  and  they  were  left,  after  giving  happi- 
ness to  others,  in  a  most  disconsolate  state. 


The  public  were  liberal  and  generous  to 
those  deserving  their  protection.  It  was  a  sad 
thing  to  be  dependant  on  the  favour,  or,  he 
might  say,  in  plain  terms,  on  the  caprice 
of  the  public  ;  and  this  more  particularly 
for  a  class  of  persons  of  whom  extreme 
prudence  was  not  the  character.  There 
might  be  instances  of  opportunities  being 
neglected  ;  but  let  them  tax  themselves, 
and  consider  the  opportunities  they  had 
neglected,  and  the  sums  of  money  they  had 
wasted ;  let  every  gentleman  look  into  his 
own  bosom,  and  say  whether  these  were 
circumstances  which  would  soften  his  own 
feeling,  were  he  to  be  plunged  into  distress. 
He  put  it  to  every  generous  bosom — to 
every  better  feeling — to  say  what  consola- 
tion was  it  to  old  age  to  be  told  that  you 
might  have  made  provision  at  a  time  which 
had  been  neglected — (loud  cheers) — and  to 
find  it  objected,  that  if  you  had  pleased  you 
might  have  been  wealthy.  He  had  hitherto 
been  speaking  of  what,  in  theatrical  lan- 
guage, was -called  "  stars,"  but  they  were 
sometimes  fallen  ones.  There  were  another 
class  of  sufferers  naturally  and  necessarily 
connected  with  the  theatre,  without  whom 
it  was  impossible  to  go  on.  The  sailors  had 
a  saying,  "  every  man  cannot  be  a  boats- 
wain." If  there  must  be  persons  to  act 
Hamlet,  there  must  also  be  people  to  act 
Laertes,  the  King,  Rosencrantz,  and  Guil~ 
denstern,  otherwise  a  drama  cannot  go  on. 
If  even  Garrick  himself  were  to  rise  from 
the  dead,  he  could  not  act  Hamlet  alone. 
There  must  be  generals,  colonels,  command- 
ing officers,  and  subalterns ;  but  what  were 
the  private  soldiers  to  do  ?  Many  had  mis- 
taken their  own  talents,  and  had  been  driven 
in  early  youth  to  try  the  stage,  to  which 
they  were  not  competent.  He  would  know 
what  to  say  to  the  poet  and  to  the  artist. 
He  would  say  that  it  was  foolish,  and  he 
would  recommend  to  the  poet  to  become  a 
scribe,  and  the  artist  to  paint  sign-posts 
(Loud  laughter.}  But  he  could  not  send  the 
player  adrift;  for  if  he  could  pot  play  Ham- 
let, he  must  play  Guildenstern.  Where 
there  were  many  labourers,  wages  must  be 
low,  and  no  man  in  such  a  situation  could 
decently  support  a  wife  and  family,  and 
save  something  of  his  income  for  old  age. 
W:hat  was  this  man  to  do  in  latter  life T 
Were  they  to  cast  him  off  like  an  old  hinge, 
or  a  piece  of  useless  machinery,  which  had 
done  its  work  ?  To  a  person  who  had  con- 
tributed to  our  amusement,  that  would  be 
unkind,  ungrateful,  and  unchristian.  His 
wants  were  not  of  his  own  making,  but 
arose  from  the  natural  sources  of  sickness 
and  old  age  It  could  not  be  denied  that 


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3tO 


tl  ere  was  one  class  of  sufferers  to  whom  no 
imprudence  could  be  ascribed,  except  on 
first  entering  on  the  profession.  After 
putting  his  hand  to  the  dramatic  plough, 
he  could  not  draw  back,  but  must  continue 
at  it,  and  toil,  till  death  released  him ;  or 
charity,  oy  its  milder  assistance,  stepped  in 
to  render  that  want  more  tolerable.  He 
had  little  more  to  say,  except  that  he  sin- 
cerely hoped  that  the  collection  to-day, 
from  the  number  of  respectable  gentlemen 
present,  would  meet  the  views  entertained 
by  the  patrons.  lie  hoped  it  would  do  so. 
They  should  not  be  disheartened.  Though 
they  could  not  do  a  great  deal,  they  might 
do  something.  They  had  this  consolation, 
that  every  thing  they  parted  with  from  their 
superfluity  would  do  some  good.  They 
would  sleep  the  better  themselves  when 
they  had  been  the  means  of  giving  sleep  to 
others.  It  was  ungrateful  and  unkind  that 
those  who  had  sacrificed  their  youth  to  our 
amusement  should  not  receive  the  reward 
due  to  them,  but  should  be  reduced  to  hard 
fare  in  their  old  age.  They  could  not 
think  of  poor  Falstaft' going  to  bed  without 
his  cup  of  sack,  or  Macbeth  fed  on  bones 
as  marrowless  as  those  of  Banquo.  (Loud 
cheers  and  laughter.}  As  he  believed  that 
they  were  all  as  fond  of  the  dramatic  art 
as  he  was  in  his  younger  days,  he  would 
propose  that  they  should  drink  "  The 
Theatrical  Fund,''  with  three  times  three. 

Mr.  MACKAY  rose  on  behalf  of  his  bre- 
thren, to  return  their  thanks  for  the  toast 
just  drank. 

Lord  MEADOWBANK  begged  to-  bear 
testimony  to  the  anxiety  which  they  all  felt 
for  the  interests  of  the  institution  which  it 
was  for  this  day's  meeting  to  establish.  For 
himself,  he  was  quite  surprised  to  find  his 
humble  name  associated  with  so  many 
others,  more  distinguished,  as  a  patron  of 
t  the  institution.  But  he  happened  to  hold 
a  high  and  important  public  station  in  the 
country.  Jt  was  matter  of  regret  that  he 
had  so  little  the  means  in  his  power  of  be- 
ing of  service ;  yet  it  would  afford  him  at 
all  times  the  greatest  pleasure  to  give  as- 
sistance. As  a  testimony  of  the  feelings 
with  which  he  now  rose,  he  begged  to  pro- 
pose a  health,  which  he  was  sure,  in  an  as- 
sembly of  Scotsmen,  would  be  received, 
not  with  an  ordinary  feeling  of  delight,  but 
with  rapture  and  enthusiasm.  He  knew 
that  it  would  be  painful  to  his  feelings  if 
he  were  to  speak  of  him  in  the  terms  which 
his  heart  prompted  ;  and  that  he  had  shel- 
tered himself  under  his  native  modesty  from 
tne  apolause  which  he  deserved.  But  it 
was  gratifyins  at  last  to  know  that  these 


clouds  were  now  dispelled,  and  that  the 
"  great  unknown  " — "  the  mighty  Magician1' 
— (here  the  room  literally  rung  with  applause* 
for  some  minutes) — the  Minstrel  nf  our 
country,  who  had  conjured  up,  not  the 
phantoms  of  departed  ages,  but  realities, 
now  stood  revealed  before  the  eyes  and 
affections  of  his  country.  In  his  presence 
it  would  ill  become  him,  as  it  would  be 
displeasing  to  that  distinguished  person,  to 
say,  if  he  were  able,  what  every  man  must 
feel,  who  recollected  the  enjoyment  he  had 
had  from  the  great  efforts  of  his  mind  and 
genius.  It  had  been  left  for  him,  by  his 
writings,  to  give  his  country  an  imperish- 
able name.  lie  had  done  more  for  that 
country,  by  illuminating  its  annals,  by  illus- 
trating the  deeds  of  its  warriors  and  states- 
men, than  any  man  that  ever  existed,  or 
was  produced,  within  its  territory.  He  had 
opened  up  the  peculiar  beauties  of  his  na- 
tive land  to  the  eyes  of  foreigners.  He  had 
exhibited  the  deeds  of  those  patriots  and 
statesmen  to  whom  we  owed  the  freedom 
we  now  enjoyed.  He  would  give  "  The 
health  of  Sir  Walter  Scott." 

This  toast  was  drank  with  enthusiastic 
cheering. 

Sir  WALTER  SCOTT  certainly  did  not 
think,  that,  in  coming  there  that  day,  he 
would  have  the  task  of  acknowledging, 
before  300  gentlemen,  a  secret  which,  con- 
sidering that  it  was  communicated  to  more 
than  20  people,  was  remarkably  well  kept. 
He  was  now  before  the  bar  of  his  country, 
and  might  be  understood  to  be  on  trial 
before  lord  Meadowbank,  as  an  offender ; 
yet  he  was  sure  that  every  impartial  jury 
would  bring  in  a  verdict  of  "  not  proven.1' 
He  did  not  now  think  it  necessary  to  enter 
into  reasons  for  his  long  silence.  Perhaps 
he  might  have  acted  from  caprice.  He  had 
now  to  say,  however,  that  the  merits  of  these 
works,  if  they  had  any,  and  their  faults, 
were  entirely  imputable  to  himself.  (Long 
and  loud  cheering.)  He  was  afraid  to  think 
on  what  he  had  done.  *'  Look  on't  again 
I  dare  not."  He  had  thus  far  unbosomed 
himself,  and  he  knew  that  il  would  be  re- 
ported to  the  public.  He  meant,  when  he 
said  that  he  was  the  author,  that  he  was  the 
total  and  undivided  author.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  quotations,  there  was  no.  a  single 
word  that  was  not  derived  from  himself,  or 
suggested  in  the  course  of  his  reading.  The 
wand  was  now  broken  and  the  rod  buried. 
They  would  allow  him  further  to  say,  with 
Prospero,  "  Your  breath  it  is  that  has  filled 
my  sails,"  and  to  crave  one  single  toast  in 
the  capacity  of  the  author  of  those  novels  , 
and  he  would  dedintf  a  bumper  to  the 


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312 


health  of  one  who  had  represented  some  of 
those  characters,  of  which  he  had  endea- 
voured to  give  the  skeleton,  with  a  degree 
of  liveliness  which  rendered  him  grateful. 
He  would  propose  the  health  of  his  friend 
fiailie  Nicol  Jarvie ;  (loud  applause  ;)  and 
he  was  sure  that,  when  the  author  of  IVa- 
verley  and  Rob  Roy  drank  to  Nicol  Jarvie, 
it  would  be  received  with  that  degree  of 
applause  to  which  that  gentleman  had  al- 
ways been  accustomed,  and  that  they  would 
take  care  that,  on  the  present  occasion,  it 
should  be  prodigious !  (Long  and  vehe- 
ment applause.) 

Mr.  MACKAY,  who  spoke  with  great  hu- 
mour in  the  character  of  Bailie  Jarvie.— 
"  My  conscience  !  My  worthy  father,  the 
Deacon,  could  not  have  believed  that  his 
son  could  hae  had  sic  a  compliment  paid 
to  him  by  the  Great  Unknown." 

Sir  WALTER  SCOTT.  — "  Not  unknown 
noiv,  Mr.  Bailie." 

After  this  avowal,  numerous  toasts  were 
duly  honoured  ;  and  on  the  proposal  of 
"  the  health  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  senior,  the 
most  distinguished  ornament  of  the  stage," 
Sir  WALTER  SCOTT  said,  that  if  any  thing 
could  reconcile  him  to  old  age,  it  was  the 
reflection  that  he  had  seen  the  rising  as  well 
as  the  setting  sun  of  Mrs.  Siddons.  He 
remembered  well  their  breakfasting  near 
to  the  theatre — waiting  the  whole  day — 
the  crushing  at  the  doors  at  six  o'clock — 
and  their  going  in  and  counting  their  fin- 
gers till  seven  o'clock.  But  the  very  first 
step— the  very  first  word  which  she  uttered, 
was  sufficient  to  overpay  him  for  all  his 
labours.  The  house  was  literally  electrified ; 
and  it  was  only  from  witnessing  the  effects 
of  her  genius,  that  he  could  guess  to  what 
a  pitch  theatrical  excellence  could  be  car- 
ried. Those  young  fellows  who  had  only 
seen  the  setting  sun  of  this  distinguished 
performer,  beautiful  and  serene  as  that  was, 
must  give  the  old  fellows  who  had  seen  its 
rise  leave  to  hold  their  heads  a  little  higher. 

Sir  WALTER  SCOTT  subsequently  gave 
"  Scotland,  the  Land  of  Cakes."  He  would 
give  every  river,  every  loch,  every  hill,  from 
Tweed  to  Johnnie  Groat's  house — every 
lass  in  her  cottage,  and  countess  in  her 
castle  ;  and  may  her  sons  stand  by  her,  as 
their  fathers  did  before  them,  and  he  who 
would  not  drink  a  bumper  to  his  toast,  may 
he  never  drink  whiskey  more. 

Mr.  H.  G.  BELL  proposed  the  health  of 
"James  Sneridan  Knowles." 

Sir  WALTER  SCOTT. — Gerrtlemen,  I  crave 
a  bumper  all  over.  The  last  toast  reminds 
me  of  a  neglect  of  duty.  Unaccustomed  to 
a  public  dutv  of  this  kind,  errors  in  con- 


ducting the  ceremonial  of  it  may  be  excused, 
and  omissions  pardoned.  Perhaps  I  have 
made  one  or  two  omissions  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  for  which  I  trust  you  will  grant 
me  your  pardon  and  indulgence.  One 
thing  in  particular  I  have  omitted,  arid  I 
would  now  wish  to  make  amends  for  it  by 
a  libation  of  reverence  and  respect  to  the 
memory  of  Shakspeare.  He  was  a  man  ot 
universal  genius,  and  from  a  period  soon 
after  his  own  era  to  the  present  day,  he  has 
been  uni/ersally  idolized.  When  I  come 
to  his  honoured  name,  I  am  like  the  sick 
man  who  hung  up  his  crutches  at  the  shrine, 
and  was  obliged  to  confess  that  he  did  not 
walk  better  than  before.  It  is  indeed  diffi. 
cult,  gentlemen,  to  compare  him  to  any 
other  individual.  The  only  one  to  whom 
I  can  at  all  compare  him,  is  the  wonderful 
Arabian  dervise,  who  dived  into  the  body 
of  each,  and  in  that  way  became  familiar 
with  the  thoughts  and  secrets  of  their 
hearts.  He  was  a  man  of  obscure  origin, 
and  as  a  player,  limited  in  his  acquirements ; 
but  he  was  born  evidently  with  a  universal 
genius.  His  eyes  glanced  at  all  the  varied 
aspects  of  life,  and  his  fancy  portrayed  with 
equal  talents  the  king  on  the  throne,  and 
the  clown  who  crackled  his  chestnuts  at  a 
Christmas  fire.  Whatever  note  he  took, 
he  struck  it  just  and  true,  and  awakened  a 
corresponding  chord  in  our  own  bosoms. 
Gentlemen,  I  propose  "  The  memory  ot 
William  Shakspeare." 

Glee-    "    Lightly    tread     his    hallowed 
ground." 

Sir  WALTER  rose  after  the  glee,  and 
begged  to  propose  as  a  toast  the  health 
of  a  lady  whose  living  merits  were  not  a 
little  honourable  to  Scotland.  This  toast 
(said  he)  is  also  flattering  to  the  national 
vanity  of  a  Scotchman,  as  the  lady  whom  I 
intend  to  propose  is  a  native  of  this  coun 
try.  From  the  public  her  works  have  met 
wi'th  the  most  favourable  reception.  One 
piece  of  hers,  in  particular,  was  often  acted 
here  of  late  years,  and  gave  pleasure  of  no 
mean  kind  to  many  brilliant  and  fashion- 
able audiences.  In  her  private  character, 
she  (he  begged  leave  to  say)  was  as  remark- 
able as  in  a  public  sense  she  was  for  her 
genius.  In  short,  he  would,  in  one  word, 
name — "  Joanna  Baillie." 

Towards  the  close  of  the  evening,  Sir 
WALTER  observed : — There  is  one  who 
ought  to  be  remembered  on  this  occasion. 
He  is  indeed  well  entitled  to  our  great 
recollection — one,  in  short,  to  whom  the 
drama  in  this  city  owes  much.  He  suc- 
ceeded, not  without  trouble,  and  perliap 
at  some  considerable  sacrifice,  in  gratitude 


313 


THE  TABLE  BOOK.. 


ing  a  theatre.  The  younger  part  of  the 
company  may  not  recollect  the  theatre  to 
which  I  allude  ;  but  there  are  some  who 
with  me  may  remember,  by  name,  the  the- 
atre in  Carrubber's-close.  There  Allan 
Ramsay  established  his  little  theatre.  His 
own  pastoral  was  not  fit  for  the  stage,  but 
it  has  its  own  admirers  in  those  who  love 
the  Doric  language  in  which  it  is  written  ; 
and  it  is  not  without  merits  of  a  very  pecu- 
liar kind.  But,  laying  aside  all  considera- 
tions of  his  literary  merit,  Allan  was  a  good, 
jovial,  honest  fellow,  who  could  crack  a 
bottle  with  the  best.  "  The  memory  of 
Allan  Ramsay." 

Mr.  P.  ROBERTSON.— I  feel  that  I  am 
about  to  tread  on  ticklish  ground.  The 
talk  is  of  a  new  theatre,  and  a  bill  may  be 
presented  for  its  erection,  saving  always, 
and  provided  the  expenses  be  defrayed  and 
carried  through,  provided  always  it-be  not 
opposed.  Bereford-park,  01  some  such 
place,  might  be  selected,  provided  always 
due  notice  was  given,  and  so  we  might 
have  a  playhouse,  as  it  were,  by  possibility. 

Sir  WALTER  SCOTT. — Wherever  the  new 
theatre  is  built,  I  hope  it  will  not  be  large. 
There  are  two  errors"  which  we  commonly 
commit— the  one  arising  from  our  pride, 
the  other  from  our  poverty.  If  there  are 
twelve  plans,  it  is  odds  but  the  largest, 
without  any  regard  to  comfort,  or  an  eye  to 
the  probable  expense,  is  adopted.  There 
was  the  college  projected  on  this  scale,  and 
undertaken  in  the  same  manner,  and  who 
shall  see  the  end  of  it?  It  has  been  build- 
ing all  my  life,  and  may  probably  last 
during  the  lives  of  my  children,  and  my 
children's  children.  Let  it  not  be  said 
when  we  commence  a  new  theatre,  as  was 
said  on  the  occasion  of  laying  the  founda- 
tion-stone of  a  certain  building,  "  Behold 
the  endless  work  begun."  Play-going  folks 
should  attend  somewhat  to  convenience. 
The  new  theatre  should,  in  the  first  place, 
be  such  as  may  be  finished  in  eighteen 
months  or  two  years  ;  and,  in  the  second 
place,  it  should  be  one  in  which  we  can 
hear  our  old  friends  with  comfort.  It  is 
betier  that  a  theatre  should  be  crowded  now 
and  then,  than  to  have  a  large  theatre, 
with  benches  continually  empty,  to  the 
discouragement  of  the  actors,  and  the  dis- 
comfort of  the  spectatois. 

Sir  WALTER  immediately  afterwards  said, 
"  Gentlemen,  it  is  now  wearing  late,  and  I 
shall  request  permission  to  retire.  Like 
Partridge,  I  may  say,  '  non  sum  qualis  eram.' 
At  my  time  of  day,  I  can  agree  with  Lord 
Jgleby,  as  to  the  rheumatism,  and  say, 
"There  's  a  twinge.'  I  hope,  therefore,  you 


will  excuse  me  for  leaving  the  chair." — 
(The  worthy  baronet  then  retired  amidst 
long,  loud,  and  rapturous  cheering.) 


These  extracts*  contain  the  substance  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  speeches  on  this  memo- 
rable occasion.  His  allusions  to  actors  and 
the  drama  are,  of  themselves,  important  ; 
but  his  avowal  of  himself  as  the  author  of 
the  "  Waverley  Novels,"  is  a  fact  of  pecu- 
liar interest  in  literary  history.  Particular 
circumstances,  however,  had  made  known 
the  "  Great  Unknown  "  to  several  persons 
in  London  some  months  previously,  though 
the  fact  had  not  by  any  means  been  gene- 
rally circulated. 


POWELL,  THE  FIRE-EATER. 

"  Oh  1  for  a  muse  oifire  !" 

One  fire  burns  out  another  burning. 
The  jack-puddings  who  swallow  flame  at 
"  the  only  booth  "  in  every  fair,  have  ex- 
tinguished re.nembrance  of  Powell  the  fire- 
eater  —  a  man  so  famous  in  his  own  day, 
that  his  name  still  lives.  Though  no  jour- 
nal records  the  time  of  his  death,  no  line 
eulogizes  his  memory,  no  stone  marks  his 
burial-place,  there  are  two  articles  written 
during  his  lifetime,  which,  being  noticed 
here,  may  "  help  his  fame  along  "  a  little 
further.  Of  the  first,  by  a  correspondent 
of  Sylvanus  Urban,  the  following  is  a  suffi- 
cient abstract. 

Ashbourn,  Derbyshire,  Jan.  20,  1755. 

Last  spring,  Mr.  Powell,  the  famous  fire- 
eater,  did  us  the  honour  of  a  visit  at  this 
town;  and,  as  he  set  forth  in  his  printed 
bills,  that  he  had  shown  away  not  only  be- 
fore most  of  the  crowned  heads  in  Europe, 
but  even  before  the  Royal  Society  of  Lon- 
don, and  was  dignified  with  a  curious  and 
very  ample  silver  medal,  which,  he  said,  was 
bestowed  on  him  by  that  learned  body,  as 
a  testimony  of  their  approbation,  for  eating 
what  nobody  else  could  eat,  I  was  prevailed 
upon,  at  the  importunity  of  some  friends, 
to  go  and  see  a  sight,  that  so  many  great 
kings  and  philosophers  had  not  thought 
below  their  notice.  And,  I  confess,  though 
neither  a  superstitious  nor  an  incurious 
man,  I  was  not  a  little  astonished  at  his 
wonderful  performances  in  the  fire-eating 
way. 

»  From  the  report  of  the  "Edinburgh  Evening  Cou- 
rant"  of  Saturday,  24th  Feb.  1827  !  m  *  The  Times" 
of  the  Tuesday  following. 


315 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


After  many  restless  days  and  nights,  and 
the  profoundest  researches  into  the  nature 
of  things,  I  almost  despaired  of  accounting 
for  the  strange  phenomenon  of  a  human 
und  perishable  creature  eating  red  hot  coals, 
aken  indiscriminately  out  of  a  large  fire, 
broiling  steaks  upon  his  tongue,  swallowing 
huge  draughts  of  liquid  fire  as  greedily  as 
a  country  squire  does  roast  beef  and  strong 
beer.  Thought  I  to  myself,  how  can  that 
element,  which  we  are  told  is  ultimately  to 
devour  all  things,  be  devoured  itself,  as 
familiar  diet,  by  a  mortal  man  ? — Here  I 
stuck,  and  here  I  might  have  stuck,  if  I 
had  not  met  with  the  following  anecdote 
by  M.  Panthot,  doctor  of  physic  and  mem- 
ber of  the  college  of  Lyons  : — 

"  The  secret  of  fire-eating  was  made 
public  by  a  servant  to  one  Richardson,  an 
Englishman,  who  showed  it  in  France  about 
the  year  1667,  and  was  the  first  performer 
of  the  kind  that  ever  appeared  in  Europe. 
It  consists  only  in  rubbing  the  hands,  and 
thoroughly  washing  the  mouth,  lips,  tongue, 
teeth,  and  other  parts  that  are  to  touch  the 
fire,  with  pure  spirit  of  sulphur.  This  burns 
and  cauterizes  the  epidermis,  or  upper  skin, 
till  it  becomes  as  hard  as  thick  leather,  and 
every  time  the  experiment  is  tried  it  be- 
comes still  easier  than  before.  But  if,  after 
it  has  been  very  often  repeated,  the  upper 
skin  should  grow  so  callous  and  horny  as 
to  become  troublesome,  washing  the  parts 
affected  with  very  warm  water,  or  hot  wine, 
will  bring  away  all  the  shrivelled  or  parched 
epidermis.  The  flesh,  however,  will  con- 
tinue tender  and  unfit  for  such  business  till 
it  has  been  frequently  rubbed  over  again 
with  the  same  spirit. 

."  This  preparative  may  be  rendered 
much  stronger  and  more  efficacious,  by 
mixing  equal  quantities  of  spirit  of  sulphur, 
sal  ammoniac,  essence  of  rosemary,  and 
juice  of  onions. 

"  The  bad  effects  which  frequently  swal- 
lowing red-hot  coals,  melted  sealing  wax, 
rosin,  brimstone,  and  other  calcined  and 
inflammable  matter,  might  have  had  upon 
his  stomach,  were  prevented  by  drinking 
plentifully  of  warm  water  and  oil,  as  soon 
as  he  left  the  company,  till  he  had  vomited 
all  up  again." 

My  author  further  adds,  that  any  person 
who  is  possessed  of  this  secret,  may  safely 
walk  over  burning  coals,  or  red-hot  plough- 
shares ;  and  he  fortifies  his  assertion  by  the 
example  of  blacksmiths  and  forgemen, 
many  of  whom  acquire  such  a  degree  of 
callosity,  by  often  handling  hot  things, 
that  they  will  carry  a  glowing  bar  of  iron 
in  their  naked  hands,  without  hurt. 


Whether  Mr.  Powell  will  take  it  kindly 
of  me  thus  to  have  published  his  secre:, 
cannot  tell ;  but  as  he  now  begins  to  d~tf 
into  years,  has  no  children  that  I  know  cf, 
and  may  die  suddenly,  or  without  making 
a  will,  I  think  it  is  a  great  pity  so  genteel 
an  occupation  should  become  one  of  the 
artes  perditce,  as  possibly  it  may,  if  proper 
care  is  not  taken  ;  and  therefore  hope,  after 
this  information,  some  true-hearted  English- 
man will  take  it  up  again  for  the  honour  of 
his  country,  when  he  reads  in  the  news- 
papers, Yesterday  died,  much  lamented,  the 
famous  Mr.  Powell.  He  was  the  best,  if 
not  the  only  fire-eater  in  this  toorld,  and  it 
is  greatly  to  be  feared  his  art  is  dead  with 
him. 

Notwithstanding  the  preceding  disclosure 
of  Powell's  "  grand  secret,"  he  continued 
to  maintain  his  good  name  and  reputation 
till  after  Dr.  Johnson  was  pensioned,  in  the 
year  1762.  We  are  assured  of  the  fact  by 
the  internal  evidence  of  the  following  ar- 
ticle, preserved  by  a  collector  of  odd  things, 
who  obtained  it  he  knew  not  how  : — 

GENIUS    UNREWARDED. 

We  have  been  lately  honoured  with  the 
presence  of  the  celebrated  Mr.  Powell, 
who,  I  suppose,  must  formerly  have  existed 
in  a  comet ;  and  by  one  of  those  unfore- 
seen accidents  which  sometimes  happen  to 
the  most  exalted  characters,  has  dropped 
from  its  tail. 

His  common  food  is  brimstone  and  fire, 
which  he  licks  up  as  eagerly  as  a  hungry 
peasant  would  a  mess  of  pottage ;  he  feeds 
on  this  extraordinary  diet  before  princes 
and  peers,  to  their  infinite  satisfaction  ;  and 
such  is  his  passion  for  this  terrible  element, 
that  if  he  were  to  come  hungry  into  your 
kitchen,  while  a  sirloin  was  roasting,  he 
would  eat  up  the  fire,  and  leave  the  beef. 

It  is  somewhat  surprising,  that  the  friends 
of  real  merit  have  not  yet  promoted  him, 
living,  as  we  do,  in  an  age  favourable  to 
men  of  genius  :  Mr.  Johnson  has  been  re- 
warded with  a  pension  for  writing,  and 
Mr.  Sheridan  for  speaking  well ;  but  Mr. 
Powell,  who  eats  well,  has  not  yet  been 
noticed  by  any  administration.  Obliged  to 
wander  from  place  to  place,  instead  o< 
indulging,  himself  in  private  with  his  fa- 
vourite dish,  he  is  under  the  uncomfortable 
necessity  of  eating  in  public,  and  helping 
himself  from  the  kitchen  fire  of  some  paltry 
alehouse  in  the  country. 

O  tempora !  O  mores  !  * 


•  Lounger's  Common  Place  Book 


air 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


318 


rf)  jfafr,  at  iSrougft,  OTestmordartfc 


For  the  Table  Book 

This  fair  is  held  always  on  the  second 
Thursday  in  March :  it  is  a  good  one  for 
cattle ;  and,  in  consequence  of  the  great 
show,  the  inhabitants  are  obliged  to  shut 
up  their  windows;  for  the  cattle  and  the 
drivers  are  stationed  in  all  parts  of  the 
town,  and  few  except  the  jobbers  venture 
out  during  the  time  of  selling. 

From  five  to  six  o'clock  the  preceding 
evening,  carts,  chiefly  belonging  to  York- 
shire clothiers,  begin  to  arrive,  and  con- 
tinue coming  in  until  the  morning,  when, 
at  about  eight  or  nine,  the  cattle  fair  be- 
gins, and  lasts  till  three  in  the  afternoon. 
Previously  to  any  article  being  sold,  the 
fair  is  proclaimed  in  a  manner  depicted 
jolerably  well  in  the  preceding  sketch.  At 
ten,  two  individuals,  named  Matthew  Horn 

VOL.  T.— J 1 . 


and  John  Deighton,  having  furnished  them- 
selves with  a  fiddle  and  clarinet,walk  through 
the  different  avenues  of  the  town  three 
times,  playing,  as  they  walk,  chiefly  "  God 
save  the  King ;"  at  the  end  of  this,  some 
verses  are  repeated,  which  I  have  not  the 
pleasure  of  recollecting;  but  I  well  remem- 
ber, that  thereby  the  venders  are  autho- 
rized to  commence  selling.  After  it  is  re- 
ported through  the  different  stalls  that 
"  they've  walked  the  fair,"  business  usually 
commences  in  a  very  brisk  manner. 

Mat.  Horn  has  the  best  cake  booth  in  the 
fair,  and  takes  a  considerable  deal  more 
money  than  any  "  spice  wife,"  fas  women 
are  called  who  attend  to  these  dainties.) 
Jack  Deighton  is  a  shoemaker,  and  a  tole- 
rably good  musician.  Coals  are  also 
brought  for  sale,  which,  with  cattle,  mainly 
constitute  the  morning  fair. 


319 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


At  the  close  of  the  cattle  fair,  the  town  is 
swept  clean,  and  lasses  walk  about  with  their 
"  sweethearts,"  and  the  fair  puts  on  another 
appearance.  "Cheap  John's  here  the  day," 
with  his  knives,  combs,  bracelets,  &c.  &c. 
The  "  great  Tom  Mathews,"  with  his  gal- 
lanty  show,  generally  contrives  to  pick  up 
a  pretty  bit  of  money  by  his  droll  ways. 
Then  "  Here's  spice  Harry,  gingerbread, 
Harry — Harry — Harry  !"  from  Richmond, 
with  his  five-and-twenty  lumps  of  ginger- 
bread for  sixpence.  Harry  stands  in  a 
cart,  with  his  boxes  of  "  spice  "  beside  him, 
attracting  the  general  attention  of  the  whole 
fair,  (though  he  is  seldomer  here  than  at 
Brough-hill  fair.)  There  are  a  few  shows,  viz. 
Scott's  sleight  of  hand,  horse  performances, 
8cc.  &c. ;  and,  considering  the  size  of  the 
town,  it  has  really  a  very  merry-spent  fair. 
At  six  o'clock  dancing  begins  in  nearly  all 
the  public-houses,  and  lasts  the  whole  of 
"  a  merry  neet." 

Jack  Deighton  mostly  plays  at  the 
greatest  dance,  namely,  at  the  Swan  inn ; 
and  his  companion,  Horn,  at  one  of  the 
others ;  the  dances  are  merely  jigs,  three 
reels,  and  four  reels,  and  country  dances, 
and  710  more  than  three  sets  can  dance  at  a 
time.  It  is  a  matter  of  course  to  give  the 
fiddler  a  penny  or  two-pence  each  dance ; 
sometimes  however  another  set  slips  in 
after  the  tune's  begun,  and  thus  trick  the 
player.  By  this  time  nearly  all  the  stalls 
are  cleared  away,  and  the  "  merry  neet "  is 
the  only  place  to  resort  to  for  amusement. 
The  fiddle  and  clarinet  are  to  be  heard 
every  where ;  and  it  is  astonishing  what 
money  is  taken  by  the  fiddlers.  Some  of 
the  "  spice  wives,"  too,  stop  till  the  next 
morning,  and  go  round  with  their  cakes  at 
intervals,  which  they  often  sell  more  of  than 
before. 

At  this  festival  at  Brough,  the  husband- 
men have  holiday,  and  many  get  so  tipsy 
that  they  are  frequently  turned  off  from 
their  masters.  Several  of  the  "  spice 
wives "  move  away  in  the  afternoon  to 
Kirby  Stephen,  where  there  is  a  very  large 
fair,  better  suited  to  their  trade,  for  it  com- 
mences on  the  day  ensuing.  Unfortunately, 
I  was  never  present  at  the  proclamation. 
From  what  I  saw,  I  presume  it  is  in  con- 
sequence of  a  charter,  and  that  these  people 
offer  their  services  that  the  fair-keepers  may 
commence  selling  their  articles  sooner.  I 
never  heard  of  their  being  paid  for  their 
trouble.  They  are  constantly  attended  by 
a  crowd  of  people,  who  get  on  the  carts 
and  booths,  and,  at  the  end,  set  up  a  loud 
«  huzza !" 

W.  H.  H. 


THE  TWELVE  GEMS 

OF   THE  TWELVE  MONTHS. 

For  the  Table  Book. 

It  is  a  Polish  superstition,  that  each 
month  has  a  particular  gem  attached  to  it, 
which  governs  it,  and  is  supposed  to  influ- 
ence the  destiny  of  persons  born  in  that 
month;  it  is  therefore  customary  among 
friends,  and  lovers  particularly,  to  present 
each  other,  on  their  natal  day,  with  some 
trinket  containing  their  tutelary  gem,  ac- 
companied with  its  appropriate  wish ;  this 
kind  fate,  or  perhaps  kinder  fancy,  gene- 
rally contrives  to  realize  according  to  their 
expectations. 

JANUARY. 

Jacinth,  or  Garnet  denotes  constancy  and 
fidelity  in  every  engagement. 

FEBRUARY. 

Amethyst  preserves  mortals  from  strong 
passions,  and  ensures  peace  of  mind. 

MARCH. 

Bloodstone  denotes  courage  and  secrecy 
in  dangerous  enterprises. 

APRIL. 

Sapphire,  or  Diamond  denotes  repentance 
and  innocence. 

MAY. 
Emerald,  successive  love. 

JUNE. 
Agate  ensures  long-life  and  health. 

JULY. 

Ruby,  or  Cornelian  ensures  the  forgetful- 
ness  or  cure  of  evils  springing  from  friend- 
ship or  love. 

AUGUST. 
Sardonic  ensures  conjugal  felicity. 

SEPTEMBER. 

•    Chrysolite  preserves  from,  or  cures  folly. 
OCTOBER. 

Aquamarine,  or  Opal  denotes  misfortune 
and  hope. 

NOVEMBER. 
Topaz  ensures  fidelity  and  friendship. 

DECEMBER. 

Turquoise,  or  Malakite  denotes  the  most 
brilliant  success  and  happiness  in  every 
circumstance  of  life. 

£.  M.  S. 


321 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


No.  VIII. 

[From  the  "Game  at  Chess,"  a  Comedy, 
by  Thomas  Middleton,  1624.] 

Popish  Priest  to  a  great  Court  Lady, 
whom  he  hopes  to  make  a  Convert  of. 

Let  me  contemplate ; 

With  holy  wonder  season  my  access, 

And  by  degrees  approach  the  sanctuary 

Of  umnatch'd  beauty,  set  in  grace  and  goodness. 

Amongst  the  daughters  of  men  1  have  not  found 

4  more  Catholical  aspect.    That  eye 

Doth  promise  single  life,  and  meek  obedience. 

Upon  those  lips  (the  sweet  fresh  buds  of  youth) 

The  holy  dew  of  prayer  lies,  like  pearl 

Dropt  from  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Upon  the  bashful  rose.    How  beauteously 

A  gentle  fast  (not  rigorously  imposed) 

Would  look  upon  that  cheek  ;  and  how  delightful 

The  courteous  physic  of  a  tender  penance, 

(Whose  utmost  cruelty  should  not  exceed 

The  first  fear  of  a  bride),  to  beat  down  frailty  1 


("From  the  "Virgin  Widow,"  a  Comedy, 
1649  ;  the  only  production,  in  that  kind, 
of  Francis  Quarles,  Author  of  the  Em- 
blems.] 

Song. 

How  blest  are  they  that  waste  their  weary  hoars 

In  solemn  groves  and  solitary  bowers, 

Where  neither  eye  nor  ear 

Can  see  or  hear 

The  frantic  mirth 

And  false  delights  of  frolic  earth ; 

Where  they  may  sit,  and  pant, 

And  breathe  their  pursy  souls ; 

Where  neither  grief  consumes,  nor  griping  want 

Afflicts,  nor  sullen  care  contronls. 

Away,  false  joys  ;  ye  mnrther  where  ye  kiss : 

There  is  no  heaven  to  that,  no  life  to  this. 


[From    "  Adrasta,"   a    Tragi -comedy,  by 
John  Jones,  1635.] 

Dirge. 

Die,  die,  ah  die  1 

We  all  must  die : 

'Tis  Fate's  decree ; 

Then  ask  not  why. 

When  we  were  framed,  the  Fates  consulted!/ 

Did  make  this  law,  that  all  things  born  should  die. 

Yet  Nature  strove, 

And  did  deny 

We  should  be  slaves 

To  Destiny. 

At  which,  they  heapt 

Such  raitery; 


That  Nature's  telf 

Did  wish  to  die  : 

And  thank  their  goodness,  that  they  would  forest* 

To  end  our  cares  with  such  a  mild  decree. 

Another. 

Come,  Lovers,  bring  your  cares, 
Bring  sigh-perfumed  sweets  ; 
Bedew  the  grave  with  tears, 
Where  Death  with  Virtue  meets. 
Sigh  for  the  hapless  hour, 
That  knit  two  hearts  in  one ; 
And  only  gave  Love  power 
To  die,  when  'twas  begun. 


[From  "  Tancred  and  Gismund,"  acted  be- 
fore the  Court  by  the  Gentlemen  of  the 
Inner  Temple,  1591.] 

A  Messenger  brings  to  Gismnnd  a  cup 
from  the  King  her  Father,  enclosing  the 
heart  of  her  Lord,  whom  she  had  espoused 
without  his  sanction. 

Mets.  Thy  father,  O  Queen,  here  in  this  cup  hath 

•ent 

The  thing  to  joy  and  comfort  thee  withal, 
Which  thou  lovedst  best :  ev'n  as  thou  wast  content 
To  comfort  him  with  his  best  joy  of  all. 

Oit.  I  thank  my  father,  and  thee,  gentle  Squire  ; 
For  this  thy  travail ;  take  thou  for  thy  pains 
This  bracelet,  and  commend  me  to  the  King. 
•  *  *  * 

So,  now  is  come  the  long-expected  hour, 
The  fatal  hour  I  have  so  looked  for. 
Now  hath  my  father  satisfied  his  thirst 
With  guiltless  blood,  which  he  so  coveted. 
What  brings  this  cup?  aye  me,  I  thought  no  less  ; 
It  is  my  Earl's,  my  County's  pierced  heart. 
Dear  heart,  too  dearly  hast  thou  bought  my  love. 
Extremely  rated  at  too  high  a  price. 
Ah  my  dear  heart,  sweet  wast  thou  in  thy  life. 
But  in  thy  death  thou  provest  passing  sweet. 
A  fitter  hearse  than  this  of  beaten  gold 
Could  not  be  lotted  to  so  good  a  heart. 
My  father  therefore  well  provided  thus 
To  close  and  wrap  thee  up  in  massy  gold  • 
And  therewithal  to  send  thee  unto  me. 
To  whom  of  duty  thou  dost  best  belong. 
My  father  hath  in  all  his  life  bewrayed 
A  princely  care  and  tender  love  to  me  * 
But  this  surpasseth,  in  his  latter  days 
To  send  me  this  mine  own  dear  heart  to  me. 
Wert  not  thou  mine,  dear  heart,  whilst  that  my  lov« 
Danced  and  play'd  upon  thy  golden  strings? 
Art  thou  not  mine,  dear  heart,  now  that  my  love 
Is  fled  to  heaven,  and  got  him  golden  wings  ? 
Thou  art  mine  own,  and  still  mine  own  shall  b«. 
Therefore  my  father  sendeth  thee  to  me. 
Ah  pleasant  harbourer  of  my  heart's  thought  I 
Ah  sweet  delight,  the  quickener  of  my  soul ! 
Seven  times  accursed  be  the  hand  that  wrought 


323 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


324 


Thee  this  despite,  to  mangle  thee  so  foul 
Vet  in  this  wound  I  see  my  own  true  love, 
And  in  this  wound  thy  magnanimity, 
And  in  this  wound  I  see  thy  constancy. 
Go,  gentle  heart,  go  rest  thee  in  thy  tomb ; 
Receive  this  token  as  thy  last  farewell. 

She  kistcth  it. 

Thy  own  true  heart  anon  will  follow  thee, 
Which  panting  hasteth  for  thy  company. 
Thus  hast  thou  run,  poor  heart,  thy  mortal  race, 
And  rid  thy  life  from  fickle  fortune's  snares, 
Thus  hast  thou  lost  this  world  and  worldly  cares , 
And  of  thy  foe,  to  honour  thee  withal, 
Receiv'd  a  golden  grave  to  thy  desert. 
Nothing  doth  want  to  thy  just  funeral, 
But  my  salt  tears  to  wash  thy  bloody  wound  ; 
Which  to  the  end  thou  mightst  receive,  behold, 
My  father  sends  thee  in  this  cup  of  gold : 
And  thou  shall  have  them  ;  though  I  was  resolved 
To  shed  no  tears ;  but  with  a  cheerful  face 
Once  did  I  think  to  wet  thy  funeral 
Only  with  blood,  and  with  no  weeping  eye. 
This  done,  my  soul  forthwith  shall  fly  to  thee ; 
For  therefore  did  my  father  send  thee  me. 

Nearly  a  century  after  the  date  of  this 
Drama,  Dryden  produced  his  admirable 
version  of  the  same  story  from  Boccacio. 
The  speech  here  extracted  may  be  compared 
with  the  corresponding  passage  in  the  Si- 
gismonda  and  Guiscardo,  with  no  disad- 
vantage to  the  elder  performance.  It  is 
quite  as  weighty,  as  pointed,  and  as  pas- 
sionate. 

C.  L. 


THE  DEAN  OF  BADAJOS. 
BY  THE  ABBE  BLANCHET. 

The  dean  of  the  cathedral  of  Badajos 
was  more  learned  than  all  the  doctors  of 
Salamanca,  Coimbra,  and  Alcala,  united ; 
he  understood  all  languages,  living  and 
dead,  and  was  perfect  master  of  every 
science  divine  and  human,  except  that, 
unfortunately,  he  had  no  knowledge  of 
magic.  He  was  inconsolable  when  he  re- 
flected on  his  ignorance  in  that  sublime 
art,  till  he  was  told  that  a  very  able  ma- 
gician resided  in  the  suburbs  of  Toledo, 
named  don  Torribio.  He  immediately 
saddled  his  mule,  departed  for  Toledo,  and 
aiighted  at  the  door  of  no  very  superb 
dwelling,  the  habitation  of  that  great  man. 

"  Most  reverend  magician,"  said  he, 
addressing  himself  to  the  sage,  "  I  am 
the  c'ean  of  Badajos.  The  learned  men  of 
Spain  all  allow  me  to  be  their  superior ; 


but  I  am  come  to  request  from  you  a  much 
greater  honour,  that  of  becoming  your 
pupil.  Deign  to  initiate  me  in  the  mys- 
teries of  your  art,  and  doubt  not  but  jou 
shall  receive  a  grateful  acknowledgment, 
suitable  to  the  benefit  conferred,  and  your 
own  extraoidinary  merit." 

Don  Torribio  was  not  very  polite,  though 
he  valued  himself  on  being  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  the  highest  company  below. 
He  told  the  dean  he  was  welcome  to  seek 
elsewhere  for  a  master;  for  that,  for  his 
part,  he  was  weary  of  an  occupation  which 
produced  nothing  but  compliments  and 
promises,  and  that  he  should  but  dishonour 
the  occult  sciences  by  prostituting  them  to 
the  ungrateful. 

"  To  the  ungrateful !"  exclaimed  the  dean : 
"  has  then  the  great  don  Torribio  met 
with  persons  who  have  proved  ungrateful  ? 
And  can  he  so  far  mistake  me  as  to  rank 
me  with  such  monsters?"  He  then  repeated 
all  the  maxims  and  apophthegms  winch  he 
had  read  on  the  subject  of  gratitude,  and 
every  refined  sentiment  his  memory  could 
furnish.  In  short,  he  talked  so  well,  that 
the  conjuror,  after  having  considered  a 
moment,  confessed  he  could  refuse  nothing 
to  a  man  of  such  abilities,  and  so  ready  at 
pertinent  quotations. 

"  Jacintha,"  said  don  Torribio  to  his  old 
woman,  "  lay  down  two  partridges  to  the 
fire.  I  hope  my  friend  the  dean  will  do 
me  the  honour  to  sup  with  me  to  night." 
"At  the  same  time  he  took  him  by  the  hand 
and  led  him  into  the  cabinet ;  when  here,  he 
touched  his  forehead,  uttering  three  mys- 
terious word?,  which  the  reader  will  please 
to  remember,  "  Ortobolan,  Pistafrier, 
Onagriouf."  Then,  without  further  pre- 
paration, he  began  to  explain,  with  all 
possible  perspicuity,  the  introductory  ele- 
ments of  his  profound  science.  The  new 
disciple  listened  with  an  attention  which 
scarcely  permitted  him  to  breathe ;  when, 
on  a  sudden,  Jacintha  entered,  followed  by 
a  little  old  man  in  monstrous  boots,  and 
covered  with  mud  up  to  the  neck,  who 
desired  to  speak  with  the  dean  on  very 
important  business.  This  was  the  postilion 
of  his  uncle,  the  bishop  of  Badajos,  who 
had  been  sent  express  after  him,  and  who 
had  galloped  without  ceasing  quite  to 
Toledo,  before  he  could  overtake  him.  He 
came  to  bring  him  information  that,  some 
hours  after  his  departure,  his  grace  had 
been  attacked  by  so  violent  an  apoplexy 
that  the  most  terrible  consequences  were 
to  be  apprehended.  The  dean  heartily, 
that  is  inwardly,  (so  as  to  occasion  no 
scandal,)  execrated  the  disorder,  the  patient, 


325 


THE  TABLE  BOOK 


and  the  courier,  who  had  certainly  all  three 
chosen  the  most  impertinent  time  possible. 
He  dismissed  the  postilion,  bidding  him 
make  haste  back  to  Badajos,  whither  he 
tvould  presently  follow  him;  and  instantly 
returned  to  his  lesson,  as  if  there  were 
Do  such  things  as  either  uncles  or  apo- 
plexies. 

A  few  days  afterwards  the  dean  again 
received  news  from  Badajos  :  but  this  was 
worth  hearing.  The  principal  chanter,  and 
two  old  canons,  came  to  inform  him  that  his 
uncle,  the  right  reverend  bishop,  had 
been  taken  to  heaven  to  receive  the  reward 
of  his  piety;  and  the  chapter,  canonically 
assembled,  had  chosen  him  to  fill  the  vacant 
bishopric,  and  humbly  requested  he  would 
console,  by  his  presence,  the  afflicted  church 
of  Badajos,  now  become  his  spiritual  bride. 

Don  Torribio,  who  was  present  at  this 
harangue,  endeavoured  to  derive  advantage 
from  what  he  had  learned ;  and  taking 
aside  the  new  tishop,  after  naving  paid 
him  a  well-turned  compliment  on  his  pro- 
motion, proceeded  to  inform  him  that  he 
had  a  son,  named  Benjamin,  possessed  of 
much  ingenuity,  and  good  inclination,  but 
in  whom  he  had  never  perceived  either 
taste  or  talent  for  the  occult  sciences.  He 
had,  therefore,  he  said,  advised  him  to  turn 
his  thoughts  towards  the  church,  and  he 
had  now,  he  thanked  heaven,  the  satisfac- 
tion to  hear  him  commended  as  one  of  the 
most  deserving  divines  among  all  the 
clergy  of  Toledo.  He  therefore  took  the 
liberty,  most  humbly,  to  request  his  grace 
to  bestow  on  don  Benjamin  the  deanery  of 
Badajos,  which  he  could  not  retain  together 
with  his  bishopric. 

"  I  am  very  unfortunate,"  replied  the 
prelate,  apparently  somewhat  embarrassed  ; 
"  you  will,  I  hope,  do  me  the  .justice  to 
believe  that  nothing  could  give  me  so  great 
a  pleasure  as  to  oblige  you  in  every  request ; 
but  the  truth  is,  I  have  a  cousin  to  whom  I 
am  heir,  an  old  ecclesiastic,  who  is  good 
for  nothing  but  to  be  a  dean,  and  if  I  do 
not  bestow  on  him  this  benefice,  I  must 
embroil  myself  with  my  family,  which  would 
be  far  from  agreeable.  But,"  continued 
fie,  in  an  affectionate  manner,  "  will  you 
Hot  accompany  me  to  Badajos  ?  Can  you  be 
so  cruel  as  to  forsake  me  at  a  moment  when 
Jt  is  in  my  power  to  be  of  service  to  you  ? 
Be  persuaded,  my  honoured  master,  we 
will  go  together.  Think  of  nothing  but  the 
improvement  of  your  pupil,  and  leave  me 
to  provide  for  don  Benjamin ;  nor  doubt, 
out  sooner  or  later,  I  will  do  more  for  him 
than  you  expect.  A  paltry  deanery  in  the 
lemotest  part  of  Estremadura  is  not  a 


benefice  suitable  to  the  son  of  such  a  man 
as  yourself." 

The  canon  law  would,  no  do'Vbt,  have 
construed  the  prelate's  offer  into  simony. 
The  pioposal  however  was  accepted,  nor 
«vas  any  scruple  made  by  either  of  these 
two  very  intelligent  persons.  Don  Torribio 
followed  his  illustrious  pupil  to  Badajos, 
where  he  had  an  elegant  apartment  as- 
signed him  in  the  episcopal  palace ;  and 
was  treated  with  the  utmost  respect  by  the 
diocese  as  the  favourite  of  his  grace,  and  a 
kind  of  grand  vicar.  Under  the  tuition  of 
so  able  a  master  the  bishop  of  Badajos 
inade  a  rapid  progress  in  the  occult  sciences. 
At  first  he  gave  himself  up  to  them,  with 
an  ardour  which  might  appear  excessive; 
but  this  intemperance  grew  by  degrees 
more  moderate,  and  he  pursued  them  with 
so  much  prudence  that  his  magical  studie" 
never  interfered  with  the  duties  of  his 
diocese.  He  was  well  convinced  of  the- 
truth  of  a  maxim,  very  important  to  be 
remembered  by  ecclesiastics,  whether  ad- 
dicted to  sorcery,  or  only  philosophers  and 
admirers  of  literature — that  .it  is  not  suffi- 
cient to  assist  at  learned  nocturnal  meetings, 
or  adorn  the  mind  with  embellishments  of 
human  science,  but  that  it  is  also  the  duty 
of  divines  to  point  out  to  others  the  way 
to  heaven,  and  plant  in  the  minds  of  their 
hearers,  wholesome  doctrine  and  Christian 
morality.  Regulating  his  conduct  by  these 
commendable  principles,  this  learned  pre- 
late was  celebrated  throughout  Christendom 
for  his  merit  and  piety  :  and,  "  when  he 
least  expected  such  an  honour,"  was  pro- 
moted to  the  archbishopric  of  Compostella. 
The  people  and  clergy  of  Badajos  lamented, 
as  may  be  supposed,  an  event  by  which 
they  were  deprived  of  so  worthy  a  pastor ; 
and  the  canons  of  the  cathedral,  to  testify 
their  respect,  unanimously  conferred  on 
him  the  honour  of  nominating  his  suc- 
cessor. 

Don  Torribio  did  not  neglect  so  alluring 
an  opportunity  to  provide  for  his  son.  He 
requested  the  bishopric  of  the  new  arch- 
bishop, and  was  refused  with  all  imaginable 
politeness.  He  had,  he  said,  the  greatest 
veneration  for  his  old  master,  and  was  both 
sorry  arid  ashamed  it  was  "  not  in  his 
power"  to  grant  a  thing  which  appeared  so 
very  a  trifle,  but,  in  fact,  don  Ferdinand  de 
Lara,  constable  of  Castile,  had  asked  the 
bishopric  for  his  natural  son ;  and  though 
he  had  never  seen  that  nobleman,  he  had, 
he  said,  some  secret,  important,  and  what 
was  more,  very  ancient  obligations  to  him. 
It  was  therefore  an  indispensable  duty  to 
prefer  an  old  benefactor  to  a  new  one 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


328 


But  don  Torribio  ought  not  <o  be  discou- 
raged at  this  proof  of  his  justice ;  as  he 
might  learn  by  that,  what  he  had  to  expect 
when  his  turn  arrived,  which  should  cer- 
tainly be  the  first  opportunity.  This  anec- 
dote concerning  the  ancient  obligations  of 
the  archbishop,  the  magician  had  the  good- 
ness to  believe,  and  rejoiced,  as  much  as 
he  was  able,  that  his  interests  were  sacri- 
ficed to  those  of  don  Ferdinand. 

Notlfing  was  now  thought  of  but  pre- 
parations for  their  departure  to  Compostella, 
where  they  were  to  reside.  These,  how- 
ever, were  scarcely  worth  the  trouble, 
considering  the  short  time  they  were  des- 
tined to  remain  there ;  for  at  the  end  of  a 
few  months  one  of  the  pope's  chamberlains 
arrived,  who  brought  the  archbishop  a 
cardinal's  cap,  with  an  epistle  conceived  in 
the  most  respectful  terms,  in  which  his 
holiness  invited  him  to  assist,  by  his 
counsel,  in  the  government  of  the  Christian 
world ;  permitting  him  at  the  same  time 
to  dispose  of  his  mitre  in  favour  of  whom 
he  pleased.  Don  Torribio  was  not  at 
Compostella  when  the  courier  of  the  holy 
father  arrived.  He  had  been  to  see  his 
son,  who  still  continued  a  priest  in  a  small 
parish  at  Toledo.  But  he  presently  re- 
turned, and  was  not  put  to  the  trouble  of 
asking  for  the  vacant  archbishopric.  The 
prelate  ran  to  meet  him  with  open  arms, 
"  My  dear  master,"  said  he,  "  I  have  two 

?'eces  of  good  news  to  relate  at  once, 
our  disciple  is  created  a  cardinal,  and 
your  son  shall — shortly — be  advanced  to 
the  same  dignity.  I  had  intended  in  the 
mean  time  to  bestow  upon  him  the  arch- 
bishopric of  Compostella,  but,  unfortunately 
for  him,  and  for  me,  my  mother,  whom  we 
left  at  Badajos,  has,  during  your  absence, 
written  me  a  cruel  letter,  by  which  all  my 
measures  have  been  disconcerted.  She  will 
not  be  pacified  unless  I  appoint  for  my 
successor  the  archdeacon  of  my  former 
church,  don  Pablas  de  Salazar,  her  in- 
timate friend  and  confessor.  She  tells  me 
it  will  "  occasion  her  death"  if  she  should 
not  be  able  to  obtain  preferment  for  her 
dear  father  in  God.  Shall  I  be  the  death 
of  my  mother  ?" 

Don  Torribio  was  not  a  person  who 
could  incite  or  urge  his  friend  to  be  guilty 
of  parricide,  nor  did  he  indulge  himself  in 
the  least  resentment  against  the  mother  of 
the  prelate.  To  say  the  truth,  however, 
this  mother  was  a  good  kind  of  woman, 
nearly  superannuated.  She  lived  quietly 
with  her  cat  and  her  maid  servant,  and 
scarcely  knew  the  name  of  her  confessor. 
Was  it  likely,  thon,  that  she  had  procured 


don  Pablas  his  archbishopric  ?  Was  it  not 
more  than  probable  that  he  was  indebted 
for  it  to  a  Gallician  lady,  his  cousin,  at 
once  devout  and  handsome,  in  whose 
company  his  grace  the  archbishop  had 
frequently  been  edified  during  his  residence 
at  Compostella?  Be  this  as  it  may,  don 
Torribio  followed  his  eminence  to  Rome. 
Scarcely  had  he  arrived  at  that  city  ere  the 
pope  died.  The  conclave  met — all  the 
voices  of  the  sacred  college  were  in  favour 
of  the  Spanish  cardinal.  Behold  him  there- 
fore pope. 

Immediately  after  the  ceremony  of  his 
exaltation,  don  Torribio,  admitted  to  a 
secret  audience,  wept  with  joy  while  he 
kissed  the  feet  of  his  dear  pupil.  He 
modestly  represented  his  long  and  faithful 
services,  reminded  his  holiness  of  those 
inviolable  promises  which  he  had  renewed 
before  he  entered  the  conclave,  and  instead 
of  demanding  the  vacant  hat  for  don  Ben- 
jamin, finished  with  most  exemplary  mo- 
deration by  renouncing  every  ambitious 
hope.  He  and  his  son,  he  said,  would 
both  esteem  themselves  too  happy  if  his 
holiness  would  bestow  on  them,  together 
with  his  benediction,  the  smallest  temporal 
benefice  ;  such  as  nn  annuity  for  life,  suf- 
ficient for  the  few  vvauts  of  an  ecclesiastic 
and  a  philosopher. 

During  this  harangue  the  sovereign 
pontiff  considered  within  himself  how  to 
dispose  of  his  preceptor.  He  reflected  he 
was  no  longer  necessary ;  that  he  already 
knew  as  much  of  magic  as  was  sufficient 
for  a  pope.  After  weighing  every  circum- 
stance, his  holiness  concluded  that  don 
Torribio  was  not  only  an  useless,  but  a 
troublesome  pedant ;  and  this  point  deter- 
mined, he  replied  in  the  following  words : 

"  We  have  learned,  with  concern,  that 
under  the  pretext  of  cultivating  the  occult 
sciences,  you  maintain  a  horrible  intercourse 
with  the  spirit  of  darkness  and  deceit ;  we 
therefore  exhort  you,  as  a  father,  to  expiate 
your  crime  by  a  repentance  proportionable 
to  its  enormity.  Moreover,  we  enjoin  you 
to  depart  from  the  territories  of  the  church 
within  three  days,  under  penalty  of  being 
delivered  over  to  the  secular  arm,  and  its 
merciless  flames." 

Don  Torribio,  without  being  alarmed, 
immediately  repeated  the  three  mysterious 
words  which  the  reader  was  desired  to 
remember ;  and  going  to  a  window,  cried 
out  with  all  his  force,  "  Jacintha,  you  need 
spit  but  one  partridge ;  for  my  friend,  the 
dean,  will  not  sup  here  to-night." 

This  was  a  thunderbolt  to  the  imaginary 
pope.  He  immediately  recovered  fiom  the 


32& 


THE  TABLE  BOOK 


330 


trance,  into  which  be  had  been  thrown  by 
the  three  mysterious  words.  He  perceived 
that,  instead  of  being  in  the  Vatican,  he 
was  still  at  Toledo,  in  the  closet  of  don 
Torribio  ;  and  he  saw,  by  the  clock,  it  was 
not  a  complete  hour  since  he  entered  that 
fatal  cabinet,  where  he  had  been  entertained 
by  such  pleasant  dreams. 

In  that  short  time  the  dean  of  Badajos 
had  imagined  himself  a  magician,  a  bishop, 
a  cardinal,  and  a  pope ;  and  he  found  at 
last  that  he  was  only  a  dupe  and  a  knave. 
All  was  illusion,  except  the  proofs  he  had 
given  of  his  deceitful  and  evil  heart.  He 
instantly  departed,  without  speaking  a 
single  word,  and  rinding  his  mule  where  he 
had  left  her,  returned  to  Badajos. 


For  the  Table  Book. 

"  You  look  but  oa  the  outside  of  affairs." 

KINO  JOHN. 

Oh !  why  do  we  wake  from  the  alchymist's  dream 
To  relapse  to  the  visions  of  Doctor  Spurzheim  ? 
And  why  from  the  heights  of  philosophy  fall, 
For  the  profitless  plans  of  Phrenology  Gall  ? 

To  what  do  they  tend  ? 

What  interest  befriend  ? 
By  disclosing  all  vices,  we  burn  away  shame, 

And  virtuous  endeavour 

Is  fruitless  for  ever, 
If  it  lose  the  reward  that  self-teaching  may  claim. 

On  their  skulls  let  the  cold-blooded  theorists  seek 
Indications  of  soul,  which  we  read  on  the  cheek ; 
In  the  glance — in  the  smile — in  the  bend  of  the  brow 
We  dare  not  tell  when,  and  we  cannot  tell  how. 

More  pleasing  our  task, 

No  precepts  we  ask  ; 

'Tis  the  tact,  'tis  the  instinct,  kind  Nature  has  lent, 
For  the  guide  and  direction  of  sympathy  meant. 
And  altho'  in  our  cause  no  learn'd  lecturer  proses, 
We  reach  the  same  end,  thro'  a  path  strew'd  with  roses. 
'Twixt  the  head  and  the  hand,  be  the  contact  allow'd, 
Of  the  road  thro'  the  eye  to  the  heart  we  are  proud. 
When  we  feel  like  the  brutes,  like  the  brutes  we  may 

show  it, 

But  no  lumps  on  the  head  mark  the  artist  or  poet. 
The  gradations  of  genius  you  never  can  find, 
Since  no  matter  can  mark  the  refinements  of  mind. 
'Tis  the  coarser  perceptions  alone  that  you  trace, 
But  what  swells  in  the  heart  must  be  read  in  the  face. 
That  index  of  feeling,  that  key  to  the  sou], 
No  art  can  disguise,  no  reserve  can  control. 
*Tis  the  Pharos  of  love,  tost  on  oceans  of  doubt, 
'Tis  the  Beal-nre  of  rage — when  good  sense  puts  about. 
A.3  the  passions  may  paint  it — a  heaven  or  a  hell. 
And  'tis  always  a  study— not  model  as  well. 


TO  THE  RHONE 
For  the  Table  Book 

Thou  art  like  our  existence,  and  thy  waves. 

Illustrious  river !  seem  the  very  type 
Of  those  events  which  drive  us  to  our  graves, 

Or  rudely  place  us  in  misfortune's  gripe  ! 
Thou  art  an  emblem  of  our  changeful  state, 

Smooth  when  the  summer  magnifies  thy  chanas. 
But  rough  and  cheerless  when  the  winds  create 

Rebellion,  and  remorseless  winter  arms 
The  elements  with  ruin  I    In  thy  course 

The  ups  and  downs  of  fortune  we  may  trace- 
One  wave  submitting  to  another's  force, 

The  boldest  always  foremost  in  the  race : 
And  thus  it  is  with  life — sometimes  its  calm 
Is  pregnant  with  enjoyment's  sweetest  balm ; 
At  other  times,  its  tempests  drive  us  down 
The  steep  of  desolation,  while  the  frown 
Of  malice  haunts  us,  till  the  friendlier  tomb 
Protects  the  victim  she  would  fain  consume  ! 

B.  W.  B. 
Upper  Park  Terrace. 


ADVICE. 

Would  a  man  wish  to  offend  his  friends? 
—let  him  give  them  advice. 

Would  a  lover  know  the  surest  method 
by  which  to  lose  his  mistress? — let  him 
give  her  advice. 

Would  a  courtier  terminate  his  sove- 
reign^ partiality? — let  him  offer  advice. 

In  short,  are  we  desirous  to  be  univer- 
sally hated,  avoided,  and  despised,  the 
means  are  always  in  our  power. — We  have 
but  to  advise,  and  the  consequences  are  in- 
fallible. 

The  friendship  of  two  young  ladies 
though  apparently  founded  on  the  rock  a 
eternal  attachment,  terminated  in  the  fol- 
lowing manner  :  "  My  dearest  girl,  I  do 
not  think  your  figure  well  suited  for  danc- 
ing ;  and,  as  a  sincere  friend  of  yours,  I 
advise  you  to  refrain  from  it  in  future."  The 
other  naturally  affected  by  such  a  mark  of 
sincerity,  replied,  "  I  feel  very  much  obliged 
to  you,  my  dear,  for  your  advice ;  this 
proof  of  your  friendship  demands  some  re- 
turn :  I  would  sincerely  recommend  you 
to  relinquish  your  singing,  as  some  of  your 
upper  notes  resemble  the  melodious  squeak- 
ing of  the  feline  race." 

The  advice  of  neither  was  followed — the 
one  continued  to  sing,  and  the  other  to 
dance — and  they  never  met  but  as  ene- 
mies. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


332 


Commp  £%  of  29urf)am. 


For  the  Table  Book. 

Tommy  Sly,  whose  portrait  is  above,  is 
a  well-known  eccentric  character  in  the  city 
of  Duiham,  where  he  has  been  a  resident 
in  the  poor-house  for  a  number  of  years. 
We  knew  not  whether  his  parents  were  rich 
»r  poor,  where  he  was  born,  or  how  he 
spent  his  early  years — all  is  alike  "  a  mys- 
tery ;"  and  all  that  can  be  said  of  him  is, 
that  he  is  "  daft."  Exactly  in  appearance 
as  he  is  represented  in  the  engraving, — 
he  dresses  in  a  coat  of  many  colours,  at- 
tends the  neighbouring  villages  with  spice, 
sometimes  parades  the  streets  of  Durham 
with  "  pipe-clay  for  the  lasses,"  and  on 
"  gala  days"  wanders  up  and  down  with  a 
cockade  in  his  hat,  beating  the  city  drum, 
which  is  good-naturedly  lent  him  by  the 
corporation.  Tommy,  as  worthless  and 
insignificant  as  he  seems,  is  nevertheless 


"  put  out  to  use :"  his  name  has  often 
served  as  a  signature  to  satirical  effusions ; 
and  at  election  times  he  has  been  occasion- 
ally employed  by  the  Whigs  to  take  the  dis- 
tinguished lead  of  some  grand  Tory  proces- 
sion, and  thereby  render  it  ridiculous;  and 
by  way  of  retaliation,  he  has  been  hired  by 
the  Tories  to  do  the  same  kind  office  for 
the  Whigs.  He  is  easily  bought  or  sold, 
for  he  will  do  any  thing  for  a  few  halfpence. 
To  sum  up  Tommy's  character,  we  may  say 
with  truth,  that  he  is  a  harmless  and  in- 
offensive man ;  and  if  the  reader  of  this 
brief  sketch  should  ever  happen  to  be  in 
Durham,  and  have  a  few  halfpence  to  spare, 
he  cannot  bestow  his  charity  better  than  by 
giving  it  to  the  "  Custos  Rotulorum  "  of 
the  place — as  Mr.  Humble  once  ludicrously 
called  him — poor  TOMMY  SLY. 

Ex  DUNELMEHSIS. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


334 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 
BURIAL  FEES. 

The  following  particulars  from  a  paper 
before  me,  in  the  hand-writing  of  Mr. 
Cell,  were  addressed  to  his  "  personal  re- 
presentative" for  instruction,  in  his  absence, 
during  a  temporary  retiiement  from  official 
duty  in  August,  1810. 

FEES 

In  the  Cloisters £19     6     0 

If  a  grave-stone  more  £440 

In  the  Abbey 54  18     0 

If  a  grave-stone  more      770 

Peers,  both  in  the  Cloisters  and 

Abbey,   the  degree   of  rank 

making  a  difference,  Mr,  Cat- 
ling had    perhaps    write  to 

Mr.     Gell,     at     post-office, 

Brighton,  telling  the   party 

that  it  will  be  under  £l50. 

They  might,  therefore,  leave 

that  sum,  or  engage  to  pay 

Mr.  Gell. 
Mt.  Glanvill  can  tell  about  the 

decorations. 


Penalty  for  burying  in  linen     - 

Always  take  full  particulars  of 
age  and  death. 


2  10     0 


The  abbey-church  of  Westminster  may 
be  safely  pronounced  the  most  interesting 
ecclesiastical  structure  in  this  kingdom. 
Considered  as  a  building,  its  architecture, 
rich  in  the  varieties  of  successive  ages,  and 
marked  by  some  of  the  most  prominent 
beauties  and  peculiarities  of  the  pointed 
style,  affords  an  extensive  field  of  gratifica- 
tion to  the  artist  and  the  antiquary.  Rising 
in  solemn  magnificence  amidst  the  palaces 
and  dignified  structures  connected  with  the 
seat  of  imperial  government,  it  forms  a 
distinguishing  feature  in  the  metropolis  of 
England.  Its  history,  as  connected  with  a 
great  monastic  establishment,  immediately 
under  the  notice  of  our  ancient  monarchs, 
and  much  favoured  by  their  patronage, 
abounds  in  important  and  curious  particu- 
lars. 

But  this  edifice  has  still  a  stronger 
claim  to  notice — it  has  been  adopted  as  a 
national  structure,  and  held  forward  as  an 
object  of  national  pride.  Whilst  contem- 
plating these  venerable  walls,  or  exploring 


the  long  aisles  and  enriched  chapels,  the 
interest  is  not  confined  to  the  customary 
recollections  of  sacerdotal  pomp  :  ceremo- 
nies of  more  impressive  interest,  and  of  the 
greatest  public  importance,  claim  a  priority 
of  attention.  The  grandeur  of  architectural 
display  in  this  building  is  viewed  with  ad- 
ditional reverence,  when  we  remember  that 
the  same  magnificence  of  effect  has  imparted 
increased  solemnity  to  the  coronation  of 
our  kings,  from  the  era  of  the  Norman 
conquest. 

At  a  very  early  period,  this  abbey-church 
was  selected  as  a  place  of  burial  for  the 
English  monarchs ;  and  the  antiquary  and 
the  student  of  history  view  their  monu- 
ments as  melancholy,  but  most  estimable 
sources  of  intelligence  and  delight.  In  the 
vicinity  of  the  ashes  of  royalty,  a  grateful 
and  judicious  nation  has  placed  the  remains 
of  such  of  her  sons  as  have  been  most 
eminent  for  patriotic  worth,  for  valour,  or 
for  talent ;  and  sculptors,  almost  from  the 
earliest  period  in  which  their  art  was  ex- 
ercised by  natives  of  England,  down  to  the 
present  time,  have  here  exerted  their  best 
efforts,  in  commemoration  of  those  thus 
celebrated  for  virtue,  for  energy,  or  for  in- 
tellectual power.* 


23ap. 

THE  LEEK. 

Written  by  WILLIAM  LEATHART,  Llyivydd. 

Sung  at  the  Second  Anniversary  of  the 
Society  of  UNDEB  CYMRY,  St.  David's 
Day,  1825. 

AIR — Pen  Rhaw. 
I. 

If  bards  tell  true,  and  hist'ry's  page 
Is  right, — why,  then,  I  would  engage 
To  tell  you  all  about  the  age, 

When  Caesar  used  to  speak  ; 
When  dandy  Britons  painted, — were 
Dress'd  in  the  skin  of  wolf  or  bear, 
Or  in  their  own,  if  none  were  there, 

Before  they  wore  THE  LEEK. 
Ere  Alfred  hung  in  the  highway, 
His  chains  of  gold  by  night  or  day ; 
And  never  had  them  stol'n  away, 

His  subjects  were  so  meek. 
When  wolves  they  danc'd  o'er  field  and  fen ; 
When  austere  Druids  roasted  men ; — 
But  that  was  only  now  and  then. 

Ere  Welshmen  wore  THE  LEEK. 


»  Mr.  Brayley  ;  in  Neale's  Hist,  and  Antiq.  of  W«sV 
minster  Abbey 


335 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


336 


"II. 

Like  all  good  things — this  could  not  last. 
And  Saxon  gents,  as  friends,  were  ask'd, 
Cur  Pictish  foes  .to  drive  them  past 

The  wall : — then  home  to  seek, 
Instead  of  home,  the  cunning  chaps 
Resolv'd  to  stop  and  dish  the  APs, 
Now  here  they  are,  and  in  their  caps 

To  day  they  wear  THE  LEEK. 
Yet  tho'  our  dads,  they  tumbled  out, 
And  put  each  other  to  the  rout, 
We  sons  will  push  the  bowl  about ; — 

We're  here  for  fun  or  freak. 
Let  nought  but  joy  within  us  dwell ; 
Let  mirth  and  glee  each  bosom  swell ; 
And  bards,  in  days  to  come,  shall  tell, 

How  Welshmen  love  THE  LEEK. 


THE  WELSH  HARP. 

MR.  LEATHART  is  the  author  of  "  Welsh 
Pennillion,  with  Translations  into  English, 
adapted  for  singing  to  the  Harp,"  an 
eighteenpenny  pocket-book  of  words  of 
ancient  and  modern  melodies  in  Welsh  and 
English,  with  a  spirited  motto  from  Mr. 
Leigh  Hunt. — "  The  Ancient  Britons  had 
in  them  the  seeds  of  a  great  nation  even  in 
our  modern  sense  of  the  word.  They  had 
courage,  they  had  reflection,  they  had  ima- 
gination. Power  at  last  made  a  vassal  of 
their  prince.  There  were  writers  in  those 
times,  harpers,  and  bards,  who  made  the 
instinct  of  that  brute  faculty  turn  cruel  out 
of  fear.  They  bequeathed  to  their  country- 
men the  glory  of  their  memories  ;  they  and 
time  together  have  consecrated  their  native 
hills,  so  as  they  never  before  were  conse- 
crated." 

According  to  the  prefatory  dissertation 
of  Mr.  Leathart's  pleasant  little  manual, 
"  Pennillion  singing "  is  the  most  social 
relic  of  ancient  minstrelsy  in  existence.  It 
originated  when  bard  ism  flourished  in  this 
island ;  when  the  object  of  its  members 
was  to  instil  moral  maxims  through  the 
medium  of  poetry,  and  the  harp  was  then, 
as  it  still  is,  the  instrument  to  which  they 
chanted.  There  is  evidence  of  this  use  of 
the  harp  in  Caesar  and  other  Latin  writers. 
The  bards  were  priest  and  poet;  the  harp 
was  their  inseparable  attribute,  and  skill  in 
playing  on  it  an  indispensable  qualification. 
'A  knowledge  of  this  instrument  was  neces- 
sary, in  order  to  establish  a  claim  to  the 
title  of  gentleman ;  it  occupied  a  place  in 
every  mansion  ;  and  every  harper  was  en- 
titled to  valuable  privileges.  A  "  Pen- 
cerdd,"  or  chief  of  song,  and  a  "  Bardd 
Feulu,"  or  domestic  bard,  were  among  the 
necessary  appendages  to  the  king's  court. 


The  former  held  his  lands  free,  was  stationed 
by  the  side  of  the  "  judge  of  the  palace," 
and  lodged  with  the  heir  presumptive.  He 
was  entitled  to  a  fee  on  the  tuition  of  all 
minstrels,  and  to  a  maiden  fee  on  the  mar- 
riage of  a  minstrel's  daughter.  The  fine  for 
insulting  him  was  six  cows  and  eighty 
pence.  The  domestic  bard  also  held  his 
land  free ;  he  had  a  harp  from  the  king, 
which  he  was  enjoined  never  to  part  with  ; 
a  gold  ring  from  the  queen,  and  a  beast  out 
of  every  spoil.  In  the  palace  he  sang  im- 
mediately after  the  chief  of  song,  and  in 
fight  at  the  front  of  the  battle.  It  is  still 
customary  for  our  kings  to  maintain  a  Welsh 
minstrel. 

One  of  the  greatest  encouragers  of  music 
was  Gruffydd  ap  Cynan,  a  sovereign  of 
Wales,  who,  in  the  year  1 100,  summoned  a 
grand  congress  to  revise  the  laws  of  min- 
strelsy, and  remedy  any  abuse  that  might 
have  crept  in.  In  order  that  it  should  be 
complete,  the  most  celebrated  harpers  in 
Ireland  were  invited  to  assist,  and  the  re- 
sult was  the  establishing  the  twenty-four 
canons  of  music ;  the  MS.  of  which  is 
in  the  library  of  the  Welsh  school,  in 
Gray's  Inn-lane.  It  comprises  several  tunes 
not  now  extant,  or  rather  that  cannot  be 
properly  deciphered,  and  a  few  that  are 
well  known  at  the  present  day.  A  tune  is 
likewise  there  to  be  found,  which  a  note 
informs  us  was  usually  played  before  king 
Arthur,  when  the  salt  was  laid  upon  the 
table ;  it  is  called  "  Gosteg  yr  Halen,"  or 
the  Prelude  of  the  Salt. 

The  regulations  laid  down  in  the  above 
MS.  are  curious.  A  minstrel  having  en- 
tered a  place  of  festivity  was  not  allowed 
to  depart  without  leave,  or  to  rove  about  at 
any  time,  under  the  penalty  of  losing  his 
fees.  If  he  became  intoxicated  and  com- 
mitted any  mischievous  trick,  he  was  fined, 
imprisoned,  and  divested  of  his  fees  for 
seven  years.  Only  one  could  attend  a 
person  worth  ten  pounds  per  annum,  or 
two  a  person  worth  twenty  pounds  per  an- 
num, and  so  forth.  It  likewise  ordains  the 
quantum  of  musical  knowledge  necessary 
for  the  taking  up  of  the  different  degrees, 
for  the  obtaining  of  which  three  years  seems 
to  have  been  allowed. 

The  Welsh  harp,  or  "  Telyn,"  consists  of 
three  distinct  rows  of  strings,  without 
pedals,  and  was,  till  the  fifteenth  century, 
strung  with  hair.  The  modern  Welsh  harp 
has  two  rows  of  strings  and  pedals. 

Giraldus  Cambrensis,  in  his  Itinerary, 
speaking  of  the  musical  instruments  of  the 
Welsh,  Irish,  and  Scotch,  says,  Wales  uses 
the  harp,  "  crwth,"  and  bag-pipes;  Scot- 


337 


THE  TATTLE  BOOK. 


338 


land  the  harp,  "crwth,"  and  drum;  Ireland 
the  harp  and  drum  only ;  and,  of  all,  Wales 
only  retains  her  own. 

The  "  crwth "  is  upon  the  same  principle 
as  the  violin  ;  it  has  however  six  strings, 
four  of  which  are  played  upon  with  a  bow, 
the  two  outer  being  struck  by  the  thumb  as 
an  accompaniment,  or  bass ;  its  tone  is  a 
mellow  tenor,  but  it  is  now  seldom  heard, 
the  last  celebrated  player  having  died  about 
forty  years  since,  and  with  him,  says  the 
editor  of  the  Cambrian  Register,  "  most 
probably  the  true  knowledge  of  producing 
its  melodious  powers."  From  the  player  of 
this  instrument  is  derived  a  name  now 
common,  vrz.  "  Crowther"  and  "  Crowder" 
(Crwthyr) ;  it  may  be  translated  "  fiddler," 
and  in  this  sense  it  is  used  by  Butler  in  his 
Hudibras. 

Within  the  last  few  years,  the  harp  has 
undergone  a  variety  of  improvements,  and 
it  is  now  the  most  fashionable  instrument ; 
yet  in  Wales  it  retains  its  ancient  form  and 
triple  strings ;  "  it  has  its  imperfections," 
observes  Mr.  Parry,  "  yet  it  possesses  one 
advantage,  and  that  is  its  unisons,''  which 
of  course  are  lost  when  reduced  to  a  single 
row. 

There  would  be  much  persuasion  neces- 
sary to  induce  "  Cymru  "  to  relinquish  her 
old  fashioned  "  Telyn,"  so  reluctant  are  a 
national  people  to  admit  of  changes.  When 
the  violin  superseded  the  "  crwth,"  they 
could  not  enjoy  the  improvement. 

Pennillion  chanting  consists  in  singing 
stanzas,  either  attached  or  detached,  of 
various  lengths  and  metre,  to  any  tune 
which  the  harper  may  play ;  for  it  is  irre- 
gular, and  in  fact  not  allowable,  for  any 
particular  one  to  be  chosen.  Two,  three, 
or  four  bars  having  been  played,  the  singer 
takes  it  up,  and  this  is  done  according  as 
the  Pennill,  or  staaza,  may  suit ;  he  must 
end  precisely  with  the  strain,  he  therefore 
commences  in  any  part  he  may  please.  To 
the  stranger  it  has  the  appearance  of  begin- 
ning in  the  middle  of  a  line  or  verse,  but 
this  is  not  the  case.  Different  tunes  require 
a  different  number  of  verses  to  complete  it ; 
sometimes  only  one,  sometimes  four  or  six. 
It  is  then  taken  up  by  the  next,  and  thus 
it  proceeds  through  as  many  as  choose  to 
join  in  the  pastime,  twice  round,  and  ending 
with  the  person  that  began. 

These  convivial  harp  meetings  are  gene- 
rally conducted  with  great  regularity,  and 
are  really  social ;  all  sing  if  they  please,  or 
all  are  silent.  To  some  tunes  there  are  a 
great  number  of  singers,  according  to  the 
ingenuity  required  in  adapting  Pennillion 
Yet  even  this  custom  is  on  the  decline. 


In  South  Wales,  the  custom  has  been 
long  lost ;  on  its  demise  they  encouraged 
song  writing  and  singing,  and  they  are  still 
accounted  the  best  (without  the  harp)  in 
the  principality.  In  North  Wales  song- 
singing  was  hardly  known  before  the  time 
of  Huw  Morus,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I., 
nor  is  it  now  so  prevalent  as  in  the  south. 

In  the  year  1176,  Rhys  ap  Gruffydd 
held  a  congress  of  bards  and  minstrels  at 
Aberteifi,  in  which  the  North  Welsh  bards 
came  off  as  victors  in  the  poetical  contest, 
and  the  South  Welsh  were  adjudged  to 
excel  in  the  powers  of  harmony. 

For  the  encouragement  of  the  harp  and 
Pennillion  chanting,  a  number  of  institu- 
tions have  lately  been  formed,  and  the 
liberal  spirit  with  which  they  are  conducted 
will  do  much  towards  the  object ;  among 
the  principal  are  the  "  Cymmrodorion,"  or 
Cambrian  Societies  of  Gwynedd,  Powys, 
Dyfed,  Gwent,  and  London ;  the  "  Gwyned- 
digion,"  and  "  Canorion,"  also  in  London. 
The  former  established  so  long  since  as 
1771,  and  the  "Undeb  Cymry,"  or  United 
Welshmen,  established  in  1823,  for  the 
same  purpose.  In  all  the  principal  towns 
of  Wales,  societies  having  the  same  object 
in  view  have  been  formed,  among  which 
the  "  Brecon  Minstrelsy  Society  "  is  par- 
ticularly deserving  of  notice.  The  harp 
and  Pennillion  singing  have  at  all  times 
come  in  for  their  share  of  encomium  by  the 
poets,  and  are  still  the  theme  of  many  a 
sonnet  in  both  languages. 

From  more  than  a  hundred  pieces  in  Mr. 
Leathart's  "  Pennillion,"  translations  of  a 
few  pennills,  or  stanzas,  are  taken  at  ran- 
dom, as  specimens  of  the  prevailing  senti- 
ments. 

The  man  who  loves  the  sound  of  harp, 

Of  song,  and  oile,  and  all  that's  dear, 
Where  angels  hold  their  blest  abode, 

Will  cherish  all  that's  cherish'd  there. 
Bat  he  who  loves  not  tune  nor  strain, 

Nature  to  him  no  love  has  given, 
You'll  see  him  while  his  days  remain, 

Hateful  both  to  earth  and  heaven. 


Fsir  is  yon  harp,  and  sweet  the  song, 
That  strays  its  tuneful  strings  along, 
And  would  not  such  a  minstrel  too. 
This  heart  to  sweetest  music  woo  ? 
Sweet  is  the  bird's  melodious  lay 
In  summer  morn  upon  the  spray, 
But  from  my  Gweno  sweeter  far, 
The  notes  of  friendship  after  war. 

Woe  to  him,  whose  every  bliss 
Centers  in  the  burthen'd  bowl ; 

Of  all  burthens  none  like  this. 
Sin's  sad  burthen  on  the  soul ; 


339 


THE  T/iBLE  BOOK. 


340 


Ti»  of  craft  and  lies  th«  seeker, 
Murder,  theft,  and  wantonness, 

Weakens  strong  men,  makes  weak  weaker, 
Shrewd  men  foolish,  foolish — less. 


Ah  1  what  avails  this  golden  coat, 
Or  all  the  warblings  of  my  throat, 

While  I  in  durance  pine  ? 
Give  me  again  what  nature  gave, 
'Tis  all  I  ask,  'tis  all  I    rave, 

Thee,  Liberty  divine ! 

To  love  his  language  in  its  pride, 
To  love  his  land — tho'  all  deride, 

Is  a  Welshman's  ev'ry  care, 
And  love  those  customs,  good  and  old, 
Practised  by  our  fathers  bold. 


We  travel,  and  each  town  we  pass 
Gives  manners  new,  which  we  admire, 

We  leave  them,  then  o'er  ocean  toss'd 

Thro'  rough  or  smooth,  to  pleasure  nigher, 

Still  one  thought  remains  behind, 

'Tis  home,  sweet  home,  our  hearts  desire. 


Wild  in  the  woodlands,  blithe  and  free, 
Dear  to  the  bird  is  liberty ; 
Dear  to  the  babe  to  be  caress'd, 
And  fondled  on  his  nurse's  breast, 
Oh  1  could  I  but  explain  to  thee 
How  dear  is  Merlon's  land  to  me. 


Low,  ye  hills,  in  ocean  lie, 
That  hide  fair  Merion  from  mine  eye, 
One  distant  view,  oh  !  let  me  take. 
Ere  my  longing  heart  shall  break. 


Another  dress  will  nature  wear 
Before  again  I  see  my  fair; 
The  smiling  fields  will  flowers  bring, 
And  on  the  trees  the  birds  will  sing ; 
Bat  still  one  thing  unchang'd  shall  be, 
That  is,  dear  love,  my  heart  for  thee. 

The  original  Welsh  of  these  and  other 
translations,  with  several  interesting  parti- 
culars, especially  the  places  of  weekly  harp- 
meetings  and  Pennillion-singing  in  London, 
may  be  found  in  Mr.  Leathart's  agreeable 
compendium. 

THE  WINTER'S  MORN. 

Artist  unseen  !  that  dipt  in  frozen  dew 

Hast  on  the  glittering  glass  thy  pencil  laid. 
Ere  from  yon  sun  the  transient  visions  fade, 

Swift  let  me  trace  the  forms  thy  fancy  drew ! 

Thy  towers  and  palaces  of  diamond  hue, 
Rivers  and  lakes  of  lucid  crystal  made, 
Acd  hung  in  air  hoar  trees  of  branching-  shad-i, 

Tbat  liquid  pearl  distil : — thy  scenes  renew, 


Whate'er  old  oards,  or  jater  fictions  feign. 
Of  secret  grottos  underneath  the  wave. 
Where  nereids  roof  with  spar  the  amber  cave  , 

Or  bowers  of  bliss,  where  sport  the  fairy  train, 
Who  frequent  by  the  moonlight  wanderer  seen 
Circle  with  radiant  gems  the  dewy  green. 

SOTHEBY. 


MRS.  AURELIA  SPARR. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

Mrs.  Aurelia  Sparr  is  a  maiden  lady, 
rather  past  fifty,  but  fresh  and  handsome 
for  her  age  :  she  has  a  strong  understand- 
ing, a  retentive  memory,  a  vast  deal  of 
acquired  knowledge,  and  with  all  she  is  the 
most  disagreeable  woman  breathing.  At 
first  she  is  amusing  enough  to  spend  an 
evening  with,  for  she  will  tell  you  anecdotes 
of  all  your  acquaintance,  and  season  them 
with  a  degree  of  pleasantry,  which  is  not 
wit,  though  something  like  it.  But  as  a 
jest-book  is  the  most  tiresome  reading  in 
the  world,  so  is  a  narrative  companion  the 
most  wearisome  society.  What,  in  short, 
is  conversation  worth,  if  it  be  not  an  ema- 
nation from  the  heart  as  well  as  head  ;  the 
result  of  sympathy  and  the  aliment  of 
esteem? 

Mrs.  Aurelia  Sparr  never  sympathized 
with  any  body  in  her  life :  inexorable  to 
weaknesses  of  every  kind,  more  especially 
to  those  of  a  tender  nature,  she  is  for 
ever  taxing  enthusiasm  with  absurdity, 
and  resolving  the  ebullition  of  vivacity  into 
vanity,  and  the  desire  to  show  off.  She  is 
equally  severe  to  timidity,  which  she  for 
ever  confounds  with  imbecility.  We  are 
told,  that  "  Gentle  dulness  ever  loved  a 
joke."  Now  Mrs.  Aurelia  Sparr  is  neither 
gentle  nor  dull ;  it  would  be  a  mercy  to  her 
hearers  if  she  were  either,  or  both  :  never- 
theless, she  chuckles  with  abundant  glee 
over  a  good  story,  is  by  no  means  particular 
as  to  the  admission  of  unpleasant  images 
and  likes  it  none  the  worse  for  being  a 
little  gross.  But  woe  to  the  unlucky  wight 
who  ventures  any  glowing  allusion  to  love 
and  passionate  affection  in  her  hearing ! 
Down  come  the  fulminations  of  her  wrath, 
and  indecency — immorality — sensuality — 
&c.  &c.  &c. — are  among  the  mildest  of  the 
epithets,  or,  to  keep  up  the  metaphor,  (a 
metaphor,  like  an  actor,  should  always 
come  in  more  than  once,)..the  bolts  which 
the  tempest  of  her  displeasure  hurls  down 
upon  its  victim.  The  story  of  Paul  and 


34! 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


343 


Virginia  she  looks  upon  as  very  improper, 
while  the  remembrance  of  some  of  the 
letters  in  Humphrey  Clinker  dimples  her 
broad  face  with  retrospective  enjoyment. 

If  pronouns  had  been  tangible  things, 
Mrs.  Aurelia  Sparr  would  long  ago  have 
worn  out  the  first  person  singular.  Her 
sentences  begin  as  regularly  with  "  I,"  as 
the  town-crier's  address  does  with  "  O  yes," 
or  as  a  French  letter  ends  with  "  1'assurance 
des  sentimens  distingues."  While  living 
with  another  lady  in  daily  and  inevitable 
intercourse,  never  was  she  known  to  say, 
"  We  shall  see — we  shall  hear — we  can  go 
— we  must  read."  It  was  always  "  I,  I,  1.'' 
Tu  the  illusion  of  her  egotism,  she  once 
went  so  far  as  to  make  a  verbal  monopoly 
of  the  weather,  and  exclaimed,  on  seeing 
the  rosy  streaks  in  the  evening  sky,  "  I 
think  1  shall  have  a  fine  day  to-morrow." 
If  you  forget  yourself  so  far,  in  the  queru- 
'ous  loquacity  of  sickness,  as  to  tell  her  of 
any  ailment,  as  "  My  sore-throat  is  worse 
than  ever  to-night  " — she  does  not  rejoin, 
"What  will  you  take?"  or  "Colds  are 
always  worse  of  an  evening,  it  may  be 
setter  to-morrow ;"  or  propose  flannel  or 
gargle,  or  any  other  mode  of  alleviation, 
like  an  ordinary  person  ;  no !  she  flies  back 
from  you  to  herself  with  the  velocity  of  a 
coiled-up  spring  suddenly  let  go ;  and  says, 
"  I  had  just  such  another  sore-throat  at 
Leicester  ten  years  ago,  I  remember  it  was 
when  I  had  taken  down  my  chintz  bed- 
curtains  to  have  them  washed  and  glazed." 
Then  comes  a  mammoth  of  an  episode, 
huge,  shapeless,  and  bare  of  all  useful  mat- 
ter :  telling  all  she  said  to  the  laundress, 
with  the  responses  of  the  latter.  You  are 
not  spared  an  item  of  the  complete  process : 
first,  you  are  blinded  with  dust,  then  soaked 
in  lye,  then  comes  the  wringing  of  your 
imagination  and  the  calico,  then  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  gall  to  refresh  the  colours ;  then 
you  are  extended  on  the  mangle,  and  may 
fancy  yourself  at  the  court  of  king  Pro- 
crustes,  or  in  a  rolling-press.  All  the  while 
you  are  wondering  how  she  means  to  get 
round  to  the  matter  in  question,  your  sore- 
throat. — Not  she !  she  cares  no  more  for 
your  sore-throat  than  the  reviewers  do  for  a 
book  with  the  title  of  which  they  head  an 
article  ;  your  complaint  was  the  peg,  and 
her  discourse  the  voluminous  mantle  to  be 
hung  on  it.  Some  people  talk  with  others, 
and  they  are  companions;  others  at  their 
company,  and  they  are  declaimers  or  sati- 
rists ;  others  to  their  friends,  and  they  are 
conversationists  or  gossips,  according  as 
they  talk  of  things  or  persons.  Mrs.  Aure- 
lia Sparr  talks  neither 'to  vou,  nor  with  you, 


nor  at  you.  Listen  attentively,  or  show  your 
weariness  by  twenty  devices  of  fidgetiness 
and  preoccupation,  it  is  all  the  same  to 
Mrs.  Aurelia  Sparr.  She  talks  spontane- 
ously, from  an  abstract  love  of  hearing  her 
own  voice ;  she  can  no  more  help  talking, 
than  a  ball  can  help  rolling  down  an  in- 
clined plane.  She  will  quarrel  with  you 
at  dinner,  for  she  is  extremely  peevish  and 
addicted  to  growling  over  her  meals ;  and 
by  no  means  so  nice  as  to  what  comes  out 
of  her  mouth  as  to  what  goes  into  it ;  and 
then,  before  you  can  fold  your  napkin,  push 
back  your  chair  and  try  to  make  good  your 
escape,  she  begins  to  lay  open  the  errors, 
failures,  and  weaknesses  of  her  oldest  and 
best  friends  to  your  cold-blooded  inspection, 
with  as  little  reserve  as  an  old  practitioner 
lecturing  over  a  "  subject."  Things  that  no 
degree  of  intimacy  could  justify  her  in  im- 
parting, she  pours  forth  to  a  person  whom 
she  does  not  even  treat  as  a  friend ;  but 
talk  she  must,  and  she  had  no  other  topic 
at  hand.  Thus,  at  the  end  of  a  siege,  guns 
are  charged  with  all  sorts  of  rubbish  for  lack 
of  ammunition. 

Mrs.  Aurelia  Sparr  not  only  knows  all 
the  modern  languages,  but  enough  o  ^Q 
ancient  to  set  up  a  parson,  and  every  di;  t 
of  every  county  she  has  ever  been  in.  If 
you  ask  her  the  name  of  any  thing,  she  will 
give  you  a  polyglot  answer  ;  you  may  have 
the  satisfaction  to  know  how  the  citizens  oi 
every  town  and  the  peasants  of  every  pro- 
vince express  themselves,  on  a  matter  you 
may  never  have  occasion  to  name  again 
But  I  earnestly  recommend  you  never  to 
ask  anything;  it  is  better  to  go  without 
hearing  one  thing  you  do  want  to  hear, 
than  to  be  constrained  to  hear  fifty  things 
that  are  no  more  to  you  than  I  to  Hecuba- — 
not  half  so  much  as  Hecuba  is  to  me.  Mrs. 
Aurelia  Sparr  is  not  easy  to  deal  with ; 
she  looks  upon  all  politeness  as  affectation, 
and  all  affectation  as  perfidy  :  she  palsies 
all  the  courtesies  of  life  by  a  glum  air  of 
disbelief  and  dissatisfaction.  When  one 
sees  nobody  else,  one  forgets  that  such 
qualities  as  urbanity,  grace,  and  benignity 
exist,  and  is  really  obliged  to  say  civil 
things  to  one's  self,  to  keep  one's  hand  in. 
Mrs.  Aurelia  Sparr  is  more  eminent  as  a 
chronicler  than  as  a  logician  ;  some  of  her 
conclusions  and  deductions  are  not  self- 
evident.  For  instance — she  interprets  a  rea- 
sonable conformity  to  the  dress  and  man- 
ners of  persons  of  other  countries,  while 
sojourning  among  them,  into  "  hating  one's 
own  country."  Command  of  temper  is 
"  an  odious,  cold  disposition.''  Address, 
and  dexterity  in  female  works,  what  good 


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344 


ladies  in  England  term  notability,  are 
deemed  by  her  "  frivolous  vanity,"  &c.  &c. 
Sic.  She  has  learnt  chemistry,  and  she 
distils  vexation  and  bitterness  from  every 
person  and  every  event — geometry,  and 
she  can  never  measure  her  deportment  to 
circumstances — algebra,  merely  to  multi- 
ply the  crosses  of  all  whose  fate  makes  them 
parallel  with  her — navigation,  and  she  does 
but  tack  from  one  absurdity  to  another, 
without  making  any  way — mathematics, 
and  she  never  calculates  how  much  more 
agreeable  a  little  good-nature  would  make 
her  than  all  her  learning — history,  and 
that  of  her  own  heart  is  a  blank — per- 
spective, without  ever  learning  to  place  self 
at  the  "  vanishing  point" — and  all  lan- 
guages, without  ever  uttering  in  any  one  of 
tfiem  a  single  phrase  that  could  make  the 
eyes  of  the  hearer  glisten,  or  call  a  glow  on 
the  cheek  of  sympathy.  Every  body  allows 
that  Mrs.  Aurelia  Sparr  is  very  clever — 
poor,  arid  praise,  what  is  it  worth  ? 


OTfne. 

EWART'S  OLD  PORT. 
To  J.  C Y,  ESQ. 

ON  RECEIVING  FROM  HIM  A  PRESENT  OP 
A  WINE-STRAINER. — 1825. 

This  life,  dear  C y, — who  can  doubt  ?— 

Resembles  much  friend  Ewart's  *  wine ; 

When  first  the  ruby  drops  flow  out. 
How  beautiful,  how  clear  they  shine ! 

And  thus  awhile  they  keep  their  tint, 
So  free  from  ev'n  a  shade,— that  some 

Would  smile,  did  you  but  dare  to  hint, 
That  darker  drops  would  ever  come. 

But  soon,  alas,  the  tide  runs  short ; — 

Each  minute  makes  the  sad  truth  plainer; 

Till  Life,  like  Ewart's  crusty  Port, 
When  near  its  close,  requires  a  strainer. 

This,  Friendship,  can,  alone,  supply, — 

Alone  can  teach  the  drops  to  pass, 
If  not  with  all  their  rosiest  dye, 

At  least,  unclouded,  through  the  glass. 

Nor,  C y,  could  a  boon  be  mine, 

Of  which  this  heart  were  fonder,  vainer, 

Than  thus,  if  Life  be  like  old  wine, 
To  have  thy  friendship  for  its  strainer ! 

E. 

•  A  vender  of  capital  old  Port  in  Swallow-street. 

For  many  years  the  goodness  of  Mr. 
Ewart's  old  Port  has  been  duly  appreciated 
by  his  private  friends.  The  preceding 


verses,  in  The  Times  of  Monday,  (March  5, 
1827,)  have  disclosed  "the  secret,"  and 
now,  probably,  he  will  "  blush  to  find  it 
fame."  The  knowledge  of  his  "  ruby 
drops  "  should  be  communicated  to  all  who 
find  it  necessary  to  "  use  a  little  wine  for 
their  stomach's  sake,  and  their  often  infir- 
mities." Can  the  information  be  conveyed 
in  more  agreeable  lines  ? 


A  NATURAL  COMPLIMENT. 

As  the  late  beautiful  duchess  of  Devon- 
shire was  one  day  stepping  out  of  her  car- 
riage,  a  dustman,  who  was  accidentally 
standing  by,  and  was  about  to  regale  him- 
self with  his  accustomed  whiff  of  tobacco, 
caught  a  glance  of  her  countenance,  and 
instantly  exclaimed,  "  Love  and  bless  you, 
my  lady,  let  me  light  my  pipe  in  your 
eyes  !"  It  is  said  that  the  duchess  was  so 
delighted  with  this  compliment,  that  she 
frequently  afterwards  checked  the  strain  of 
adulation,  which  was  constantly  offered 
to  her  charms,  by  saying,  "  Oh  !  after  the 
dustman's  compliment,  all  others  are  in- 
sipid." 


PERSIAN  SONG  OF  HAFIZ. 
BY  SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 

Sweet  maid,  if  thou  wonldst  charm  my  sight, 
And  bid  these  arms  thy  neck  infold; 

That  rosy  cheek,  that  lily  hand, 
Would  give  thy  poet  more  delight 
Than  all  Bocara's  vaunted  gold, 
Than  all  the  gems  of  Samarcand. 

Boy !  let  yon  liquid  ruby  flow, 
And  bid  thy  pensive  heart  be  glad, 

Whate'er  the  frowning  zealots  say :  — 
Tell  them  their  Eden  cannot  show 
A  stream  so  clear  as  Rocnabad, 
A  bower  so  sweet  as  Mosellay. 

O !  when  these  fair,  perfidious  maids. 
Whose  eyes  our  secret  haunts  infest, 

Their  dear  destructive  charms  display  ;— 
Each  glance  my  tender  breast  invades, 
And  robs  my  wounded  soul  of  rest ; 
As  Tartars  seize  their  deitin'd  prey. 

In  vain  with  love  our  bosoms  glow  • 
Can  all  our  tears,  can  all  our  sighs. 

New  lustre  to  those  charms  impart  ? 
Can  cheeks,  where  living  roses  blow, 
Where  nature  spreads  her  richest  dyes, 
Require  the  borrow'd  gloss  of  art  ? 


345 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


346 


Speak  not  of  fate : — a)t  1  change  the  theme, 
And  talk  of  odours,  talk  of  wine, 

Talk  of  the  flowers  that  round  ns  bloom : — 
•Tis  all  a  cloud,  'tis  all  a  dream  : 
To  love  and  joy  thy  thoughts  confine, 

Nor  hope  to  pierce  the  sacred  gloom. 
Beauty  has  such  resistless  power, 
That  ev'n  the  chaste  Egyptian  dame 

Sigh'd  for  the  blooming  Hebrew  boy  ; 
For  her  how  fatal  was  the  hour, 
When  to  the  banks  of  Nilus  came 

A  youth  so  lovely  and  so  coy ! 
But  ah,  sweet  maid !  my  counsel  hear, — 
(Youth  shall  attend  when  those  advise 
Whom  long  experience  renders  sage) 
While  music  charms  the  ravish'd  ear  ; 
While  sparkling  cups  delight  our  eyes, 

Be  gay  ;  and  scorn  the  frowns  of  age. 
\VTiat  cruel  answer  have  I  heard ! 
And  yet,  by  heaven,  I  love  thee  still: 

Can  aught  be  cruel  from  thy  lip  ? 
Yet  say,  how  fell  that  bitter  word 
From  lips  which  streams  of  sweetness  fill, 
Which  nought  but  drops  of  honey  sip  ? 
Go  boldly  forth,  my  simple  lay. 
Whose  accents  flow  with  artless  ease, 

Like  orient  pearls  at  random  strung : 
Thy  notes  are  sweet,  the  damsels  say; 
But  O  !  far  sweeter,  if  they  please, 
The  nymph  for  whom  these  notes  are  sung. 

"  OUR    LIVES  AND  PROPERTIES." 
BY  MR.  WILLIAM  MUTTON,  F.  A.  S.  S. 

If  we  survey  this  little  world,  vast  in  our 
idea,  but  small  compared  to  immensity,  we 
shall  find  it  crusted  over  with  property, 
fixed  and  movable.  Upon  this  crusty 
world  subsist  animals  of  various  kinds ; 
one  of  which,  something  short  of  six  feet, 
moves  erect,  seems  the  only  one  without  a 
tail,  and  takes  the  lead  in  the  command  of 
this  property.  Fond  of  power,  and  con- 
scious that  possessions  give  it,  he  is  ever 
attempting,  by  force,  fraud,  or  laudable 
means,  to  arrive  at  both. 

Fixed  property  bears  a  value  according 
to  its  situation  ;  10,000  acres  in  a  place 
like  London,  and  its  environs,  would  be  an 
immense  fortune,  such  as  no  man  ever  pos- 
sessed ;  while  10,000,  in  some  parts  of  the 
globe,  though  well  covered  with  timber, 
would  not  be  worth  a  shilling — -no  king 
fo  govern,  no  subject  to  submit,  no  market 
to  exhibit  property,  no  property  to  exhibit ; 
instead  of  striving  to  get  possession,  he 
would,  if  cast  on  the  spot,  strive  to  get 
away.  Thus  assemblages  of  people  mark  a 
place  with  value 

Movable  property  is  of  two  sorts ;  that 
which  arises  from  the  earth,  with  the  assist- 


ance of  man  ;  and  the  productions  of  art, 
which  wholly  arise  from  his  labour.  A 
small  degree  of  industry  supplies  the  wants 
of  nature,  a  little  more  furnishes  the  com- 
forts of  life,  and  a  farther  proportion  affords 
the  luxuries.  A  man,  by  labour  first  re- 
moves his  own  wants,  and  then,  with  the 
overplus  of  that  labour,  purchases  the 
labour  of  another.  Thus,  by  furnishing  a 
hat  for  the  barber,  the  hatter  procures  a  wig 
for  himself:  the  tailor,  by  making  a  coat 
for  another,  is  enabled  to  buy  cloth  for  his 
own  It  follows,  that  the  larger  the  num- 
ber of  people,  the  more  likely  to  cultivate 
a  spirit  of  industry ;  the  greater  that  in- 
dustry, the  greater  its  produce ;  conse- 
quently, the  more  they  supply  the  calls  of 
others,  the  more  lucrative  will  be  the  re- 
turns to  themselves. 

It  may  be  asked,  what  is  the  meaning  of 
the  word  rich  ?  Some  have  termed  it,  a 
little  more  than  a  man  has ;  others,  as 
much  as  will  content  him;  others  again, 
the  possession  of  a  certain  sum,  not  very 
small.  Perhaps  all  are  wrong.  A  man 
may  be  rich,  possessed  only  of  one  hundred 
pounds ;  he  may  be  poor,  possessed  of  one 
hundred  thousand.  He  alone  is  rich, 
whose  income  is  more  than  he  uses. 

Industry,  though  excellent,  will  .perform 
but  half  the  work  ;  she  must  be  assisted  by 
economy ;  without  this,  a  ministerial  for- 
tune will  be  defective.  These  two  quali- 
ties, separated  from  each  other,  like  a  knife 
from  the  handle,  are  of  little  use ;  but,  like 
these,  they  become  valuable  when  united. 
Economy  without  industry  will  barely  ap- 
pear in  a  whole  coat ;  industry  without 
economy  will  appear  in  rags.  The  first  is 
detrimental  to  the  community,  by  prevent- 
ing the  circulation  of  property ;  the  last  is 
detrimental  to  itself.  It  is  a  singular  re- 
mark, that  even  industry  is  sometimes  the 
way  to  poverty.  Industry,  like  a  new  cast 
guinea,  retains  its  sterling  value ;  but,  like 
that,  it  will  not  pass  currently  till  it  receives 
a  sovereign  stamp  :  economy  is  the  stamp 
which  gives  it  currency.  1  well  knew  a 
man  who  began  business  with  1500/.  In- 
dustry seemed  the  end  for  which  he  was 
made,  and  in  which  he  wore  himself  out. 
While  he  laboured  from  four  in  the  mom- 
ing  till  eight  at  night,  in  the  making  of 
gimlets,  his  family  consumed  twice  his 
produce.  Had  he  spent  less  time  at  the 
anvil,  and  more  in  teaching  the  lessons  of 
frugality,  he  might  have  lived  in  credit. 
Thus  the  father  was  ruined  by  industry, 
and  his  children  have,  for  many  }'ears,  ap- 
peared on  the  parish  books.  Some  people 
are  more  apt  to  get  than  to  keep. 


347 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


348 


Though  a  man,  by  his  labour,  may  treat 
himself  with  many  things,  yet  he  seldom 
grows  rich.  Riches  are  generally  acquired 
by  purchasing  the  labour  of  others.  He 
who  buys  the  labour  of  one  hundred  people, 
may  acquire  ten  times  as  much  as  by  his 
own. 

What  then  has  that  capricious  damsel, 
Fortune,  to  do  in  this  chain  of  argument? 
Nothing.  He  who  has  capacity,  attention, 
and'  economy,  has  a  fortune  within  himself. 
She  does  not  command  him,  he  commands 
her. 

Having  explained  the  word  riches,  and 
pointed  out  the  road  to  them,  let  us  exa- 
mine their  use.  They  enable  a  man  with 
great  facility  to  shake  off  an  old  friend, 
once  an  equal ;  and  forbid  access  to  an 
inferior,  except  a  toad-eater.  Sometimes 
they  add  to  his  name,  the  pretty  appendage 
of  Right  Honourable,  Bart,  or  Esq.  addi- 
tions much  coveted,  which,  should  he  hap- 
pen to  become  an  author,  are  an  easy 
passport  through  the  gates  of  fame.  His 
very  features  seem  to  take  a  turn  from  his 
fortune,  and  a  curious  eye  may  easily  read 
in  his  face,  the  word  consequence.  They 
change  the  tone  of  his  voice  from  the  sub- 
missive to  the  commanding,  in  which  he 
well  knows  how  to  throw  in  a  few  graces. 
His  style  is  convincing.  Money  is  of  sin- 
gular efficacy ;  it  clears  his  head,  refines 
his  sense,  points  4iis  joke.  The  weight  of 
his  fortune  adds  weight  to  his  argument. 
If,  my  dear  reader,  you  have  been  a  silent 
spectator  at  meetings  for  public  business, 
or  public  dinners,  you  may  have  observed 
many  a  smart  thing  said  unheeded,  by  the 
man  without  money ;  and  many  a  paltry 
one  echoed  with  applause,  from  the  man 
with  it.  The  room  in  silent  attention  hears 
one,  while  the  other  can  scarcely  hear  him- 
self. They  direct  a  man  to  various  ways  of 
being  carried  who  is  too  idle  to  carry  him- 
self; nay,  they  invert  the  order  of  things, 
for  we  often  behold  two  men,  who  seem 
hungry,  carry  one  who  is  full  fed.  They 
add  refinement  to  his  palate,  prominence  to 
his  front,  scarlet  to  his  nose.  They  fre- 
quently ward  off  old  age.  The  ancient 
rules  of  moderation  being  broken,  luxury 
enters  in  all  her  pomp,  followed  by  a  gro-jp 
of  diseases,  with  a  physician  in  their  train, 
and  the  rector  in  his.  Phials,  prayers, 
tears,  and  galley-pots,  close  the  sad  scene, 
and  the  individual  has  the  honour  to  rot  in 
state,  before  old  age  can  advance.  His 
place  may  be  readily  supplied  with  a.  joyful 
mourner.* 

•  History  of  Birmingham. 


A  MUSICAL  CRASH. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  B ,  when   residing  at 

Canterbury,  was  reckoned  a  good  violon- 
cello player ;  but  he  was  not  more  dis- 
tinguished for  his  expression  on  the  instru- 
ment, than  for  the  peculiar  appearance  of 
feature  whilst  playing  it.  In  the  midst  of 
the  adagios  of  Corelli  or  Avison,  the  mus- 
cles of  his  face  sympathised  with  his  fiddle- 
stick, and  kept  reciprocal  movement.  His 
sight,  being  dim,  obliged  him  often  to  snuff 
the  candles ;  and,  when  he  came  to  a  bar's 
rest,  in  lieu  of  snuffers,  he  generally  em- 
ployed his  fingers  in  that  office ;  and,  lest 
he  "should  offend  the  good  housewife  by 
this  dirty  trick,  he  used  to  thrust  the 
spoils  into  the  sound-holes  of  his  violoncello. 
A  waggish  friend  resolved  to  enjoy  him- 
self "  at  the  parson's  expense,"  as  he 
termed  it;  and,  for  that  purpose,  popped 
a  quantity  of  gunpowder  into  B.'s  instru- 
ment. Others  were  informed  of  the  trick., 
and  of  course  kept  a  respectable  distance. 
The  tea  equipage  being  removed,  music 
became  the  order  of  the  evening ;  and, 

after  B had  tuned  his  instrument,  and 

drawn  his  stand  near  enough  to  snuff  his 
candles  with  ease,  feeling  himself  in  the 
meridian  of  his  glory,  he  dashed  away  at 

Vanhall's  47th.     B came  to  a  bar's 

rest,  the  candles  -,vere  snuffed,  and  he 
thrust  the  ignited  wick  into  the  usual  place ; 
fitfragor,  bang  went  the  fiddle  to  pieces, 
and  there  was  an  end  of  harmony  that 
evening. 

FASHIONABLE  RELIGION. 
A  French  gentleman,  equally  tenacious 
of  his  character  for  gallantry  and  devotion, 
went  to  hear  mass  at  the  chapel  of  a  fa- 
vourite saint  at  Paris  ;  when  lie  came 
there,  he  found  repairs  weie  doing  in  the 
building  which  prevented  the  celebration. 
To  show  that  he  had  not  been  defective  in 
his  duty  and  attentions,  he  pulled  out  a 
richly  decorated  pocket-book,  and  walking 
with  great  gravity  and  many  genuflexions 
up  the  aisle,  very  carefully  placed  a  card  of 
his  name  upon  the  principal  altar. 

A  POLITE  TOWN. 

Charles  II.  on  passing  through  Bodmin, 
is  said  to  have  observed,  that  "  this  was  the 
politest  town  he  had  ever  seen,  as  one  half 
of  the  houses  appeared  to  be  bowing,  and 
the  other  half  uncovered."  Since  the  days 
of  Charles,  the  houses  are  altered,  but  the 
inhabitants  still  retain  their  politeness, 
especially  at  elections. 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


ancient  Sritfe*  $tllar,  Walie  Crutfsi  awbep,#ortft 


Who  first  uprear'd  this  venerable  stone. 
And  how,  by  ruthless  hands,  the  column  fell, 
And  how  again  restor'd,  I  fain  would  tell. 


A  few  years  ago,  an  artist  made  a  water- 
colour  sketch  oi  this  monument,  as  a  pic- 
turesque object,  in  the  romantic  vicinage 
of  Llangollen ;  from  that  drawing  he  per- 
mitted the  present,  and  the  following  are 
some  particulars  of  the  interesting  me- 
morial. 

Mr.  Pennant,  during  his  "  Tour  in 
Wales,"  entered  Merionethshire,  "  into  that 
portion  for  ever  to  be  distinguished  in  the 
Welsh  annals,  on  account  of  the  hero  it 
produced,  who  made  such  a  figure  in  the 
beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century."  This 
tract  retains  its  former  title,  '*  Glyn- 

*rdv?y,"  or  the  valley  of  the   Dee.     It 

VOL.' I.— 12. 


once  belonged  to  the  lords  of  Dinas  Bran. 
After  the  murder  of  the  two  eldest  sons  of 
the  last  lord,  the  property  had  been  usurp- 
ed by  the  earl  of  Warren,  and  that  noble- 
man, who  appears  to  have  been  seized 
with  remorse  for  his  crime,  instead  of 
plunging  deeper  in  guilt,  procured  from 
Edward  I.  a  grant  of  the  territory  to  the 
third  son,  from  whom  the  fourth  in  descent 
was  the  celebrated  Owen  Glyndwr.* 

In  this  valley,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from   Vatle   Crucis  Abbey,    Mr.  Pennant 

•  His  quarrel  with  Howel  Sele  forms  an  article  » 
the  Every-Day  Book,  vol.  ii.  p.  1021—1038. 


33  J 


THE  TABLE  BOOK 


352 


found  the  present  monument.  It  was 
thrown  from  its  base,  and  lay  in  the  hedge 
of  a  meadow.  He  figures  it  by  an  engrav- 
ing of  the  pillar  in  an  upright  position, 
showing  the  fracture  of  the  lower  part  as  it 
then  appeared  in  relation  to  the  square 
socket-stone,  its  original  supporter.  Mr. 
Pennant  calls  it  the  "  remainder  of  a  round 
column,  perhaps  one  of  the  most  ancient  of 
any  British  inscribed  pillar  now  existing ;" 
and  he  thus  proceeds  : — 

"  It  was  entire  till  the  civil  wars  of  the 
last  century,  when  it  was  thrown  down  and 
broken,  by  some  ignorant  fanatics,  who 
thought  it  had  too  much  the  appearance  of 
a  cross  to  be  suffered  to  stand.  It  probably 
bore  the  name  of  one ;  for  the  field  it  lies 
in  is  still  called  '  Llwyn-y-Groes,'  or  the 
Grove  of  the  Cross,  from  the  wood  that 
surrounded  it.  It  was  erected  at  so  early 
a  period,  that  there  is  nothing  marvellous 
if  we  should  perceive  a  tincture  of  the  old 
idolatry,  or  at  least  of  the  primeval  cus- 
toms of  our  country,  in  the  mode  of  it  when 
perfect. 

"The  pillar  had  never  been  a  cross  ;  not- 
withstanding folly  and  superstition  might, 
in  later  times,  imagine  it  to  have  been  one, 
and  have  paid  it  the  usual  honours.  It 
was  a  memorial  of  the  dead ;  an  improve- 
ment on  the  rude  columns  of  Druidical 
times,  and  cut  into  form,  and  surrounded 
with  inscriptions.  It  is  among  the  first 
lettered  stones  that  succeeded  the  '  Meini- 
hirion,'  '  Meini  Gwyr,'  and  '  Llechau.' 
It  stood  on  a  great  tumulus ;  perhaps 
always  environed  with  wood,  (as  the  mount 
is  at  present,)  according  to  the  custom  of 
the  most  ancient  times,  when  standing  pil- 
lars were  placed  '  under  every  green  tree.' 

"  It  is  said  that  the  stone,  when  complete, 
was  twelve  feet  high.  It  is  now  reduced 
to  six  feet  eight.  The  remainder  of  the 
capital  is  eighteen  inches  long1.  It  stood 
enfixed  in  a  square  pedestal,  still  lying  in 
the  mount ;  the  breadth  of  which  is  five 
feet  three  inches;  the  thickness  eighteen 
inches. 

"  The  beginning  of  the  inscription  gives 
us  nearly  the  time  of  its  erection,  '  Con- 
cenn  filius  Cateli,  Cateli  filius  Brochmail, 
Brochmail  filius  Eliseg,  Eliseg  filius  Cnoil- 
laine,  Concenn  itaque  pronepos  Eliseg  edi- 
ficavit  hunc  lapidem  proavo  suo  Eliseg' 

"  This  Concenn,  or  Congen,  was  the 
grandson  of  Brochmail  Yseithroc,  the  same 
who  was  defeated  in  607,  at  the  battle  of 
Chester.  The  letters  on  the  stone  were 
copied  by  Mr.  Edward  Llwyd  :  the  inscrip- 
tion is  now  illegible ;  but,  from  the  copy 
taken  by  that  great  antiquary,  the  alphabet 


nearly  resembles  one  of  those  in  use  in  tne 
sixth  century. 

"  One  of  the  seats  of  Concenn  and  Eliseg 
was  in  this  country.  A  township  adjacent 
to  the  column  bears,  from  the  last,  the 
name  of  Eglwyseg;  and  the  picturesque 
tiers  of  rocks  are  called  Glisseg  for  the  same 
reason.  The  habitation  of  this  prince  of 
Powys  in  these  parts  was  probably  Dinas 
Br&n,  which  lies  at  the  head  of  the  vale  of 
Glisseg.  Mr.  Llwyd  conjectures  that  this 
place  took  its  name  from  the  interment  of 
Eliseg." 

Mr.  Pennant  continues  to  relate  that 
"  There  are  two  ways  from  this  pillar  :  the 
usual  is  along  the  vale,  on  an  excellent 
turnpike  road  leading  to  Ruthyn ;  the  other 
is  adapted  only  for  the  travel  of  the  horsemen, 
but  far  the  more  preferable,  on  account  of 
the  romantic  views.  I  returned  by  Valle 
Crucis ;  and,  after  winding  along  a  steep 
midway  to  the  old  castle,  descended  ;  and, 
then  crossing  the  rill  of  the  Bran,  arrived 
in  the  valley  of  Glisseg ;  long  and  narrow, 
bounded  on  the  right  by  the  astonishing 
precipices,  divided  into  numberless  parallel 
strata  of  white  limestone,  often  giving 
birth  to  vast  yew-trees;  and,  on  the  left, 
by  smooth  and  verdant  hills,  bordered  by 
pretty  woods.  One  of  the  principal  of  the 
Glisseg  rocks  is  honoured  with  the  name 
of  Craig-Arthur;  another,  at  the  end  of 
the  vale  called  Craig  y  Forwyn,  or  the 
Maiden's,  is  bold,  precipitous,  and  termi- 
nates with  a  vast  natural  column.  This 
valley  is  chiefly  inhabited  (happily)  by  an 
independent  race  of  warm  and  wealthy 
yeomanry,  undevoured  as  yet  by  the  great 
men  of  the  country." 

The  "  Tour  in  Wales "  was  performed 
by  Mr.  Pennant  in  1773  ;  and  his  volume, 
containing  the  preceding  account  of  the 
"  Pillar  of  Eliseg,"  was  published  in  1 778. 
In  the  following  year,  the  shaft  was  reared 
from  its  prostrate  situation  on  its  ancient 
pedestal,  as  appears  by  the  following  in- 
scription on  the  cplumn,  copied  by  the 
artist  who  made  the  present  drawing  of  the 
monument. 

QUOD  HUJUS  VETEEIS  MONUMEHT1 

SUPEREST 
DIU    EX    OCULIS    KEMOTUM 

ET    KEGLECTUM 
TANDEM    RESTITUIT 

T.  LLOYD 

DE 
TREVOR    HALL 

A.D. 

M. DCC. LAX. IX. 


353 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


354 


It  is  not  in  my  power  to  add  more 
respecting  this  venerable  memorial  of 
early  ages  than,  that,  according  to  a 
printed  itinerary,  its  neighbourhood  is  at 
this  time  further  remarkable  for  the  self- 
seclusion  of  two  ladies  of  rank.  At  about 
two  miles'  distance  is  an  elegant  cottage, 
situated  on  a  knoll,  the  retreat  of  lady 
Elizabeth  Butler  and  Miss  Ponsonby  ;  who, 
turning  from  the  vanity  of  fashionable  life, 
have  fixed  their  residence  in  this  beautiful 
vale. 


ACCOUNT  OF  A  STONE-EATER. 
BY  FATHER  PAULIAN. 

The  beginning  of  May,  1760,  was 
brought  to  Avignon,  a  true  lithophagus  ot 
stone-eater.  He  not  only  swallowed  flints 
of  an  inch  and  a  half  long,  a  full  inch 
broad,  and  half  an  inch  thick ;  but  such 
stones  as  he  could  reduce  to  powder,  such 
as  marble,  pebbles,  &c.  he  made  up  into 
paste,  which  was  to  him  a  most  agreeable 
and  wholesome  food.  1  examined  this 
man  with  all  the  attention  I  possibly  could ; 
I  found  his  gullet  very  large,  his  teeth  ex- 
ceedingly strong,  his  saliva  very  corrosive, 
and  his  stomach  lower  than  ordinary,  which 
I  imputed  to  the  vast  number  of  flints  he 
had  swallowed,  being  about  five  and  twenty, 
one  day  with  another. 

Upon  interrogating  his  keeper,  he  told 
me  the  following  particulars.  "  This  stone- 
eater,"  says  he,  "  was  found  three  years  ago 
in  a  northern  inhabited  island,  by  some  of 
the  crew  of  a  Dutch  ship,  on  Good  Friday. 
Since  I  have  had  him,  I  make  him  eat  raw 
flesh  with  his  stones ;  I  could  never  get  him 
to  swallow  bread.  He  will  drink  water, 
wine,  and  brandy ;  which  last  liquor  gives 
him  infinite  pleasure.  He  sleeps  at  least 
twelve  hours  in  a  day,  sitting  on  the  ground 
with  one  knee  over  the  other,  and  his  chin 
resting  on  his  right  knee.  He  smokes 
almost  all  the  time  he  is  not  asleep,  or  is 
not  eating."  The  keeper  also  tells  me,  that 
some  physicians  at  Paris  got  him  blooded ; 
that  the  blood  had  little  or  no  serum,  and 
in  two  hours'  time  became  as  fragile  as 
coral. 

This  stone-eater  hitherto  is  unable  to 
pronounce  more  than  a  few  words,  Oui, 
non,  caillou,  bon.  I  showed  him  a  fly 
through  a  microscope :  he  was  astonished 
at  the  size  of  the  animal,  and  could  not  be 
induced  to  examine  it.  He  has  been  taught 


to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  was  bap- 
tized some  months  ago  in  the  chu<ch  of  Si, 
Come,  at  Paris.  The  respect  he  shows  to 
ecclesiastics,  and  his  ready  disposition  to 
please  them,  afforded  me  the  opportunity  of 
satisfying  myself  as  to  all  these  particulars ; 
and  I  am  fully  convinced  that  hp  is  no 
cheat.* 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    A    STONE 
EATER. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

I  was  born  by  the  side  of  a  rocky  cave 
in  the  Peak  of  Derbyshire ;  before  I  was 
born,  my  mother  dreamed  I  should  be  an. 
ostrich.  I  very  early  showed  a  disposition 
to  my  present  diet;  instead  of  eating  the 
pap  offered  to  me,  I  swallowed  the  spoon, 
which  was  of  hard  stone  ware,  made  in 
that  country,  and  had  the  handle  broken 
off.  My  coral  served  me  in  the  doable 
capacity  of  a  plaything  and  a  sweetmeat; 
and  as  soon  as  I  had  my  teeth,  I  nibbled  at 
every  pan  and  mug  that  came  within  my 
reach,  in  such  a  manner,  that  there  was 
scarcely  a  whole  piece  of  earthenware  to  be 
found  in  the  house.  I  constantly  swallowed 
the  flints  out  of  the  tinder-box,  and  so  de- 
ranged the  economy  of  the  family,  that  my 
mother  forced  me  to  seek  subsistence  out 
of  the  house. 

Hunger,  they  say,  will  break  stone  walls : 
this  I  experienced  ;  for  the  stone  fences  lay 
very  temptingly  in  my  way,  and  I  made 
many  a  comfortable  breakfast  on  them. 
On  one  occasion,  a  fanner  who  had  lost 
some  of  his  flock  the  night  before,  finding 
me  early  one  morning  breaking  his  fences, 
would  hardly  be  persuaded  that  I  had  no 
design  upon  his  mutton — I  only  meant  to 
regale  myself  upon  his  wall. 

When  I  went  to  school,  I  was  a  great 
favourite  with  the  boys  ;  for  whenever  there 
was  damson  tart  or  cherry  pie,  I  was  well 
content  to  eat  all  the  stones,  and  leave 
them  the  fruit.  I  took  the  she'll,  and  gave 
my  companions  the  oyster,  and  whoever 
will  do  so,  I  will  venture  to  say,  will  be 
well  received  through  life.  I  must  confess, 
however,  that  I  made  great  havock  among 
the  marbles,  of  which  I  swallowed  as  many 
as  the  other  boys  did  of  sugar-plums.  I 
have  many  a  time  given  a  stick  of  barley- 
sugar  for  a  de'icious  white  alley ;  and  it 
used  to  be  the  diversion  of  the  bigger  boys 
to  shake  me,  and  hear  them  rattle  in  my 


*  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


3*5 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


stomach.  While  I  was  there,  I  devoured 
the  greatest  part  of  a  stone  chimney-piece, 
which  had  been  in  the  school  time  out  of 
mind,  and-  borne  the  memorials  of  many 
generations  of  scholars,  all  of  which  were 
more  swept  away  by  my  teeth,  than  those 
of  time.  I  fell,  also,  upon  a  collection  of 
spars  and  pebbles,  which  my  master's 
daughter  had  got  together  to  make  a  grotto. 
For  both  these  exploits  I  was  severely  flog- 
ged. I  continued,  however,  my  usual  diet, 
except  that  for  a  change  I  sometimes  ate 
Norfolk  dumplins,  which  I  found  agree 
with  me  very  well.  I  have  now  continued 
this  diet  for  thirty  years,  and  do  affirm  it 
to  be  the  most  cheap,  wholesome,  natural, 
and  delicious  of  all  food. 

I  suspect  the  Antediluvians  were  Litho- 
phagi :  this,  at  least,  we  are  certain  of,  that 
Saturn,  who  lived  in  the  golden  age,  was  a 
stone-eater  !  We  cannot  but  observe,  that 
those  people  who  live  in  fat  rich  soils  are 
gross  and  heavy ;  whereas  those  who  in- 
habit rocky  and  barren  countries,  where 
there  is  plenty  of  nothing  but  stones,  are 
healthy,  sprightly,  and  vigorous.  For  my 
own  part,  I  do  not  know  that  ever  I  was  ill 
in  my  life,  except  that  once  being  over  per- 
suaded to  venture  on  some  Suffolk  cheese, 
it  gave  me  a  slight  indigestion. 

I  am  ready  to  eat  flints,  pebbles,  mar- 
bles, freestone,  granite,  or  any  other  stones 
the  curious  may  choose,  with  a  good  appe- 
tite and  without  any  deception.  I  am 
promised  by  a  friend,  a  shirt  and  coarse 
frock  of  the  famous  Asbestos,  that  my  food 
and  clothing  may  be  suitable  to  each  other. 


FRANCIS  BATTALIA. 

In  1641,  Hollar  etched  a  print  of  Francis 
Battalia,  an  Italian,  who  is  said  to  have 
eaten  half  a  peck  of  stones  a  day.  Re- 
specting this  individual,  Dr.  Bulwer,  in  his 
"  Artificial  Changeling,"  says  he  saw  the 
man,  that  he  was  at  that  time  about  thirty 
years  of  age ;  and  that  "  he  was  born  with 
two  stones  in  one  hand,  and  one  in  the 
other,  which  the  child  took  for  his  first 
nourishment,  upon  the  physician's  advice; 
and  afterwards  nothing  else  but  three  or 
four  pebbles  in  a  spoon,  once  in  twenty- 
four  hours  "  After  his  stone-meals,  he  was 
accustomed  to  take  a  draught  of  beer : 
"  and  in  the  interim,  now  and  then,  a  pipe 
of  tobacco;  for  he  had  been  a  soldier  in 
Ireland,  at  the  siege  of  Limerick ;  and  upon 
his  return  to  London  was  confined  for  some 
time  upon  suspicion  of  imposture." 


<§arricfe 


No.  IX. 

[From  the  "  Two  Angry  Women  of  Abing- 
don,"  a  Comedy,  by  Henry  Porter, 
1599.] 

Proverb-monger. 

This  formal  fool,  your  man,  speaks  ntoght  but  Pro 

verbs  ; 

And,  speak  men  what  they  can  to  him,  he'll  answer 
With  some  rhyme-rotten  sentence,  or  old  saying, 
Such  spokes  as  th*  Ancient  of  the  Pari>h  use 
With  "  Neighbour,  it's  an  old  Proverb  and  a  true, 
Goose  giblets  are  good  meat,  old  sack  better  than  new  :" 
Then  says  another,  "  Neighbour,  that  is  true." 
And  when  each  man  hath  drunk  his  gallon  round, 
(A  penny  pot,  for  that's  the  old  man's  gallon), 
Then  doth  he  lick  his  lips,  and  stroke  his  beard, 
That's  glued  together  with  the  slavering  drops 
Of  yesty  ale  ;  and  when  he  scarce  can  trim 
His  gouty  fingers,  thus  he'll  fillip  it, 
And  with  a  rotten  hem  say,  "  Hey  my  hearts," 
M  Merry  go  sorry,"  "  Cock  and  Pye,  my  heartt  ;" 
And  then  their  saving-penny-proverb  comes, 
And  that  is  this,  "  They  that  will  to  the  wine, 
By'r  Lady,  mistress,  shall  lay  their  penny  to  mine." 
This  was  one  of  this  penny-father's  bastard*  ; 
For  on  my  life  he  was  never  begot 
Without  the  consent  of  some  great  Proverb-monger. 


She  Wit. 

Why,  she  will  flout  the  devil,  and  make  blush 

The  boldest  face  of  man  that  ever  man  saw. 

He  that  hath  best  opinion  of  his  wit, 

And  hath  his  brain-pan  fraught  with  bitter  jests 

(Or  of  his  own,  or  Klol'n,  or  howsoever), 

Let  him  stand  ne'er  so  high  in's  own  conceit, 

Her  wit's  a  sun  that  melts  him  down  like  butter, 

And  makes  him  sit  at  table  pancake-wise, 

Flat,  flat,  and  ne'er  a  word  to  say  ; 

Yet  she'll  not  leave  him  then,  but  like  a  tyrant 

She'll  persecute  the  poor  wit-beaten  man, 

And  so  be-bang  him  with  dry  bobs  and  scoffs, 

When  he  is  down  ("most  cowardly,  good  faith  I) 

As  I  have  pitied  the  pool  patient. 

There  came  a  Farmer's  Son  a  wooing  to  her, 

A  proper  man,  well-landed  too  he  was, 

A  man  that  for  his  wit  need  not  to  ask 

What  time  a  year  'twere  need  to  sow  hi»  oats, 

Nor  yet  his  barley,  no,  nor  when  to  reap, 

To  plow  his  fallows,  or  to  fell  his  trees, 

Well  experienced  thus  each  kind  of  way  ; 

After  a  two  months'  labour  at  the  most, 

(And  yet  'twas  well  he  held  it  out  so  long), 

He  left  his  Love  ;  she  had  so  laced  his  lips, 

He  could  say  nothing  to  her  but  "  God  be  with  y«." 

Why,  she,  when  men  have  dined,  and  call'd  for  oneesc 

Will  strait  maintain  jests  bitter  to  digest  ; 

And  then  some  one  will  fall  to  argument, 


THE  TABLE  BOOK., 


Who  if  he  ov«-.  -master  her  with  reason, 
Then  she'll  begin  to  buffet  him  with  mocks. 


Mastei  Goursey  proposes  to  his  Son  a 
Wife. 

Frank  Gowsey.  Ne'er  trust  me,  father,  the  shape  of 

marriage, 

Which  I  do  see  in  others,  seems  so  severe, 
I  dare  not  put  my  youngling  liberty 
Under  the  awe  of  that  instruction ; 
And  yet  I  grant,  the  limits  of  free  youth 
Going  astray  are  often  restrain'd  by  that. 
But  Mistress  Wedlock,  to  my  summer  thoughts, 
Will  be  too  curst,  I  fear :  O  should  she  snip  • 

My  pleasure-aiming  mind,  I  shall  be  sad  ; 
And  swear,  when  I  did  marry,  I  was  mad. 
Old  Ooursey.  But,  boy,  let  my  experience  teach  thee 

this; 

(Yet  in  good  faith  thou  speak'st  not  much  amiss)  ; 
When  first  thy  mother's  fame  to  me  did  come, 
Thy  grandsire  thus  then  came  to  me  his  son, 
And  ev'n  my  words  to  thee  to  me  he  said  ; 
And,  as  thou  say'st  to  me,  to  him  I  said, 
But  in  a  greater  huff  and  hotter  blood : 
I  tell  ye,  on  youth's  tiptoes  then  I  stood. 
Says  he  (good  faith,  this  was  his  very  say), 
When  I  was  young,  I  was  but  Reason's  fool ; 
And  went  to  wedding,  as  to  Wisdom's  school : 
It  taught  me  much,  and  much  I  did  forget ; 
But,  beaten  much  by  it,  I  got  some  wit : 
Though  I  was  shackled  from  an  often-scout, 
Yet  I  would  wanton  it,  when  I  was  out ; 
'Twas  comfort  old  acquaintance  then  to  meet. 
Restrained  liberty  attain'd  is  sweet, 
Thus  said  my  father  to  thy  father,  son ; 
And  thou  may'st  do  this  too,  as  I  have  done. 

Wandering  in  the  dark  all  night. 
O  when  will  this  same  Year  of  Night  have  end  ? 
Long-look'd  for  Day's  Son,  when  wilt  thou  ascend? 
Let  not  this  thief-friend  misty  veil  of  night 
Encroach  on  day,  and  shadow  thy  fair  light ; 
Whilst  thou  comest  tardy  from  thy  Thetis'  bed. 
Blush  forth  golden-hair  and  glorious  red. 
O  stay  not  long,  bright  lanthern  of  the  day, 
To  light  my  mist-way  feet  to  my  right  way. 

The  pleasant  Comedy,  from  which  these 
Extracts  are  taken,  is  contemporary  with 
some  of  the  earliest  of  Sbakspeare's,  and  is 
no  whit  inferior  to  either  the  Comedy  of 
Errors,  or  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  for 
instance.  It  is  full  of  business,  humour, 
and  merry  malice.  Its  night-scenes  are 
peculiarly  sprightly  and  wakeful.  The  ver- 
sification unencumbered,  and  rich  with 
compound  epithets.  Why  do  we  go  on 
with  ever  new  Editions  of  Ford,  and  Mas- 
singer,  and  the  thrice  reprinted  Selections 
of  Dodsley  ?  what  we  want  is  as  many 


/olumes  more,  as  these  latter  consist  of, 
filled  with  plays  (such  as  this),  of  which  we 
know  comparatively  nothing.  Not  a  third 
part  of  the  Treasures  of  old  English  Dra- 
matic literature  has  been  exhausted.  Are 
we  afraid  that  the  genius  of  Shakspeare 
would  suffer  in  our  estimate  by  the  disclo- 
sure ?  He  would  indeed  be  somewhat 
lessened  as  a  miracle  and  a  prodigy.  But 
he  would  lose  no  height  by  the  confession. 
When  a  Giant  is  shown  to  us,  does  it  de- 
tract from  the  curiosity  to  be  told  that  he 
has  at  home  a  gigantic  brood  of  brethren, 
less  only  than  himself?  Along  with  him, 
not  from  him,  sprang  up  the  race  of  mighty 
Dramatists  who,  compared  with  the  Otways 
and  Rowes  that  followed,  were  as  Miltons 
to  a  Young  or  an  Akenside.  That  he  was 
their  elder  Brother,  not  their  Parent,  is  evi- 
dent from  the  fact  of  the  very  few  direct 
imitations  of  him  to  be  found  in  their 
writings.  Webster,  Decker,  Heywood,  and 
the  rest  of  his  great  contemporaries  went 
on  their  own  ways,  and  followed  their  in- 
dividual impulses,  not  blindly  prescribing 
to  themselves  his  tract.  Marlowe,  the  true 
(though  imperfect)  Father  of  our  tragedy, 
preceded  him.  The  comedy  of  Fletcher  is 
essentially  unlike  to  that  of  his.  'Tis  out  of 
no  detracting  spirit  that  I  speak  thus,  for 
the  Plays  of  Shakspeare  have  been  the 
strongest  and  the  sweetest  food  of  my  mind 
from  infancy ;  but  I  resent  the  comparative 
obscurity  in  which  some  of  his  most  valua- 
ble co-operators  remain,  who  were  his  dear 
intimates,  his  stage  and  his  chamber-fellows 
while  he  lived,  and  to  whom  his  gentle 
spirit  doubtlessly  then  awarded  the  full 
portion  of  their  genius,  as  from  them  to- 
ward himself  appears  to  have  been  no 
grudging  of  his  acknowledged  excellence. 

C.  L. 


AGRESTILLA. 
For  the  Table  Book. 

There  is  a  story  in  the  Rambler  of  a  lady 
whom  the  great  moralist  calls  Althea,  who 
perversely  destroyed  all  the  satisfaction  of 
a  party  of  pleasure,  by  not  only  finding,  but 
seeking  for  fault  upon  every  occasion,  and 
affecting  a  variety  of  frivolous  fears  and 
apprehensions  without  cause.  Female  fol- 
lies, like  "  states  and  empires,  have  their 
periods  of  declension  ;"  and  nearly  half  a 
century  has  passed  away  since  it  has  been 
deemed  elegant,  or  supposed  interesting,  to 
scream  at  a  spider,  shudder  in  a  boat,  or 


THE  TABLE  BOOK. 


360 


assert,  with  vehemence  of  terror,  that  a 
gun,  though  ascertained  not  to  be  charged, 
may  still  "  go  off."  The  tendency  to  fly 
from  one  extreme  to  the  other  has  ever  been 
the  characteristic  of  weak  minds,  and  the 
party  of  weak  minds  will  always  support 
itself  by  a  considerable  majority,  both 
among  women  and  men.  Something  may 
be  done  by  those  minor  moralists,  modestly 
termed  essayists  and  novelists,  who  have 
brought  wisdom  and  virtue  to  dwell  in 
saloons  and  drawing-rooms.  Mrs.  H.  More 
and  Miss  Edgeworth  have  pretty  well  writ- 
ten down  the  affectation  of  assuming  "  the 
cap,  the  whip,  the  masculine  attire,"  and 
the  rage  for  varnishing  and  shoe-making 
has  of  itself  subsided,  by  the  natural  effect 
of  total  incongruity  between  the  means  and 
the  end.  Ladies  are  now  contented  to  be 
ladies,  that  is,  rational  beings  of  the  softer 
sex,  and  do  not  affect  to  be  artists  or  me- 
chanics. Nevertheless,  some  peculiarities 
of  affectation  do  from  time  to  time  shoot 
up  into  notice,  and  call  for  the  pruning- 
knife  of  the  friendly  satirist. 

AGRESTILLA  is  an  agreeable,  well-in- 
formed person  of  my  own  sex,  from  whose 
society  I  have  derived  great  pleasure  and 
advantage  both  in  London  and  Paris.  A 
few  weeks  since,  she  proposed  to  me  to 
accompany  her  to  spend  some  time  in  a 
small  town  in  Normandy,  for  the  benefit  of 
country  air:  to  this  plan  I  acceded  with 
great  readiness ;  an  apartment  was  secured 
by  letter,  and  we  proceeded  on  our  journey. 

I  have  lived  too  long  in  the  world  ever 
to  expect  unmixed  satisfaction  from  any 
measure,  and  long  enough  never  to  neglect 
any  precaution  by  which  personal  comfort 
is  to  be  secured.  To  this  effect  I  had  re- 
presented, that  perhaps  it  might  be  better 
to  delay  fixing  on  lodgings  till  we  arrived, 
lest  we  should  find  ourselves  bounded  to 
the  view  of  a  market-place  or  narrow  street, 
with,  perchance,  a  butcher's  shop  opposite 
our  windows,  and  a  tin-man  or  tallow- 
chandler  next  door  to  us.  Agrestilla  re- 
plied, that  in  London  or  Paris  it  was  of 
course  essential  to  one's  consideration  in 
society  to  live  in'  a  fashionable  neighbour- 
hood, but  that  nobody  minded  those  things 
"  in  the  country."  In  vain  I  replied,  that 
consideration  was  not  what  I  considered, 
but  freedom  from  noise  and  bad  smells :  I 
was  then  laughed  at  for  my  fastidiousness, 
— '<  Who  in  the  world  would  make  difficul- 
ties about  such  trifles  in  the  country,  when 
one  might  be  out  of  doois  from  morning 
till  night !" 

We  arrived  at  the  place  of  our  destina- 
iior  ;  ray  mind  expanded  with  pleasure  at 


the  sight  of  large  rooms,  wide  staircases, 
and  windows  affording  the  prospect  of  ver- 
dure.    The  stone-floors  and  the  paucity  of 
window  curtains,  to  say  nothing  of  blinds 
to  exclude  the  sun,  appeared  to  me  incon- 
veniences to  be  remedied  by  the  expendi- 
ture of  a  few   francs ;   but  -Agrestilla,  as 
pertinacious  in  her  serenity  as  Althea  in 
her  querulousness,  decided  that  we  ought 
to  take  things  in  the  rough,  and  make  any- 
thing  do   ';  in    the   country."      Scraps   of 
carpet  and  ells  of  muslin  are  attainable  by 
unassisted  effort,  stimulated  by  necessity, 
and  I  acquired  and   maintained  tolerable 
ease  of  mind  and  body,  till  we  came  to 
discuss  together  the  grand  article  of  society. 
My  maxim  is,  the  best  or  none  at  all.     I 
love   conversation,  but  hate  feasting  and 
visiting.     Agrestilla  lays  down  no  maxim, 
but  her  practice  is,  good  if  possible — if  not, 
second-best ;    at   all   events,  a  number  of 
guests  and  frequent  parties.     Though  she 
is  not  vain  of  her  mind  or  of  her  person, 
yet  the  display  of  fine  clothes  and  good 
dishes,  and  the  secret  satisfaction  of  shining 
forth  the  queen  of  her  company,  make  up 
her  enjoyment :    Agrestilla's  taste  is  gre- 
garious.    To  my  extreme  sorrow  and  ap- 
prehension, we  received  an  invitation  to 
dine  with   a   family  unknown  to  me,  and 
living  nine  miles  off!     To  refuse  was  im- 
possible, the  plea  of  preengagement  is  in- 
admissible with   people   who    tell  you   to 
"  choose  your  day,"  and  as  to  pretending 
to  be  sick,  I  hold  it  to  be  presumptuous  and 
wicked.   The  conveyance  was  to  be  a  cart! 
the  time  of  departure  six  in  the  morning! 
Terrified  and  aghast,  I  demanded,  "  How 
are  we  to  get  through  the  day  ?"  No  work  I 
no  books  !  no  subjects  of  mutual  interest 
to  talk  upon  ! — "  Oh  !  dear  me,  time  soon 
passes  '  in  the  country ;'  we  shall  be  three 
hours  going,  the  roads  are  very  bad,  then 
comes  breakfast,  and  then  walking  round 
the  garden,  and  then   dinner  and  coming 
home  early."     This   invitation    hung  over 
my  mind  like  an    incubus, — like   an  eye- 
tooth  firm  in  the  head  to  be  wrenched  out, 
— like  settling-day  to  a  defaulter,  or  auricu- 
lar confession  to  a  ceremonious  papist  and 
bad  liver.     My  only  hope  was  in  the  wea- 
ther.    The  clouds  seemed  to  be  for  ever 
filling   and    for   ever   emptying,    like    the 
pitchers  of  the  Danaides.  The  street,  court, 
and  yarden  became  all  impassable,  without 
the   loan   of    Celestine's  sabuts    (nnglice 
wooden  shoes.)     Celestine  is  a  stout  Nor- 
man girl,  who  washes  the  dishes,  and  wears 
a  holland-Hiob  and  a  linsey-woolsey  petti- 
coat.    Certainly,  thought  I,  in  my  foolish 
secu:ity,  while  this  deluge  continues  no- 


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36-2 


body  will  think  of  visiting  "  in  the  coun- 
try." But  vain  and  illusive  was  my  hope ! 
Agrestilla  declared  her  intention  of  keeping 
her  engagement  "  if  it  rained  cats  and 
dogs ;"  and  the  weather  cleared  up  on  the 
eve  of  my  execution,  and  smiled  in  derision 
of  my  woe.  The  cart  came.  Jemmy  Daw-n 
son  felt  as  much  anguish  in  his,  but  he  did 
not  feel  it  so  long.  We  were  lumbered 
with  inside  packages,  bundles,  boxes,  and 
baskets,  accumulated  by  Agrestilla ;  I  pro- 
posed their  being  secured  with  cords  (lashed 
is  the  sea-term)  to  prevent  them  from  roll- 
ing about,  crushing  our  feet  and  grazing  our 
legs  at  every  jolt.  Agrestilla's  politeness 
supprest  an  exclamation  of  amazement, 
that  people  could  mind  such  trifles  "  in  the 
country !" — for  her  part,  she  never  made 
difficulties. — Being  obliged  to  maintain  the 
equilibrium  of  my  person  by  clinging  to 
each  side  of  the  cart  with  my  two  hands,  I 
had  much  to  envy  those  personages  of  the 
Hindu  mythology,  who  are  provided  with 
six  or  seven  arms  :  as  for  my  bonnet  it  was 
crushed  into  all  manner  of  shapes,  my  brain 
was  jarred  and  concussed  into  the  incapa- 
city to  tell  whether  six  and  five  make  eleven 
or  thirteen,  and  my  feet  were  "  all  mur- 
dered," as  the  Irish  and  French  say.  What 
exasperated  my  sufferings  was  the  reflection 
on  my  own  folly  in  incurring  so  much  posi- 
tive evil,  to  pay  and  receive  a  mere  com- 
pliment !  Had  it  been  to  take  a  reprieve 
to  a  dear  friend  going  to  be  hanged,  to 
carry  the  news  of  a  victory,  or  convey  a 
surgeon  to  the  wounded,  I  should  have 
thought  nothing  and  said  less  of  the  matter; 
but  for  a  mere  dinner  among  strangers,  a 
long  day  without  interest  and  occupation  ! 
— really  I  consider  myself  as  having  half 
incurred  the  guilt  of  suicide.  Six  or  seven 
times  al  least,  the  horse,  painfully  dragging 
us  the  whole  way  by  the  strain  of  every 
nerve"  and  sinew,  got  stuck  in  the  mud,  and 
was  to  be  flogged  till  he  plunged  out  of  it. 
More  than  once  we  tottered  upon  ridges  of 
incrusted  mud,  when  a  very  little  matter 
would  have  turned  us  over.  I  say  nothing 
about  Rutland — I  abhor  and  disdain  a  pun 
— but  we  did  nothing  but  cross  ruts  to 
avoid  puddles,  and  cress  them  back  again 
to  avoid  stones,  and  the  ruts  were  all  so 
deep  as  to  leave  but  one  semicircle  of  the 
wheel  visible.  I  never  saw  such  roads — 
the  Colossus  of  Rhodes  would  have  been 
knee-deep  in  them.  At  last  we  arrived — 
Agrestilla  as  much  out  of  patience  at  my 
calling  it  an  evil  to  have  my  shins  bruised 
black  and  blue,  while  engaged  in  a  party  of 
pleasure  "  in  the  country,"  as  I  to  find  the 
expedition  all  pain  arid  no  pleasure.  We 


turned  out  of  the  cart  in  very  bad  condi- 
tion ;  all  our  dress  "  clean  put  on,"  as  the 
housewives  say,  rumpled  and  soiled,  oui 
limbs  stiff,  our  faces  flushed,  and  by  far  too 
fevered  to  eat,  and  too  weary  to  walk.  How 
I  thought,  like  a  shipwrecked  mariner,  not 
upon  my  own  "  fireside,"  as  English  no- 
velists always  say,  but  upon  my  quiet, 
comfortable  room,  books,  work,  indepen- 
dence, and  otium  with  or  without  dignitate 
(let  others  decide  that.)  Oh !  the  fag  of 
talking  when  one  has  nothing  to  say,  smil- 
ing when  one  is  ready  to  cry,  and  accept- 
ing civilities  when  one  feels  them  all  to  be 
inflictions  !  Of  the  habits,  the  manners, 
the  appearance,  and  the  conversation  of 
our  hosts,  I  will  relate  nothing;  I  have 
eaten  their  bread,  as  the  Arabs  say,  and 
owe  them  the  tribute  of  thanks  and  silence. 
Agrestilla  was  as  merry  as  possible  all  day; 
she  has  lived  in  the  company  of  persons  of 
sense  and  education,  but — nobody  expects 
refinement  "  in  the  country !"  In  vain  I 
expostulate  with  her,  pleading  in  excuse  of 
what  she  terms  my  fastidiousness,  that  I 
cannot  change  iny  fixed  notions  of  elegance, 
propriety,  and  comfort,  to  conform  to  the 
habits  of  those  to  whom  such  terms  are  as 
lingua  franca  to  a  Londoner,  what  he  nei- 
ther understands  nor  cares  for. 

It  is  easy  to  conform  one's  exterior  to 
rural  habits,  by  putting  on  a  coarse  straw 
hat,  thick  shoes,  and  linen  gown,  but  the 
taste  and  feeling  of  what  is  right,  the  men- 
tal perception  must  remain  the  same.  No- 
thing can  be  more  surprising  to  an  English 
resident  in  a  country-town  of  France,  than 
the  jumble  of  ranks  in  society  that  has  taken 
place  since  the  revolution.  I  know  a  young 
lady  whose  education  and  manners  render 
her  fit  for  polished  society  in  Paris ;  her 
mother  goes  about  in  a  woollen  jacket,  and 
dresses  the  dinner,  not  from  necessity,  for 
that  I  should  make  no  joke  of,  but  from 
taste ;  and  is  as  arrant  an  old  gossip  as  ever 
lolled  with  both  elbows  over  the  counter  of 
a  chandler's  shop. — Her  brother  is  a  garde 
dn  corps,  who  spends  his  life  in  palaces  and 
drawing-rooms,  and  she  has  one  cousin  a 
little  pastry-cook,  and  another  a  washer- 
woman.— They  have  a  lodger,  a  maiden 
lady,  who  lives  on  six  hundred  francs  per 
annum,  (about  twenty-four  pounds,)  and  of 
course  performs  every  menial  office  for  her- 
self, and,  except  on  Sundays,  looks  like  an 
old  weeding-woman  ;  her  brother  has  been 
a  judge,  lives  in  a  fine  house,  buys  books 
and  cultivates  exotics.  Low  company  is 
tiresome  in  England,  because  it  is  ignorant 
and  stupid ;  in  France  it  is  gross  and  dis- 
gusting. The  notion  of  being  merry  and 


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entertaining  is  to  tell  gross  stories;  the 
demoiselles  sit  and  say  nothing,  simper  and 
look  pretty:  what  a  pity  it  is  that  time 
should  change  them  into  coarse,  hard- 
featured  commdres,  like  their  mothers !  The 
•way  in  Normandy  is  to  dine  very  early,  and 
remain  all  the  evening  in  the  dinner-room, 
instead  of  going  into  a  fresh  apartment  to 
take  coffee.  Agrestilla  does  not  fail  to 
conform  to  the  latter  plan  in  Paris,  because 
people  of  fashion  do  so,  and  Agrestilla  is  a 
fashionable  -woman,  but  she  wonders  I 
should  object  to  the  smell  of  the  dinner 
"  in  the  country."  I  have  been  strongly 
tempted  to  the  crime  of  sacrilege  by  robbing 
the  church  for  wax  candles,  none  being  to 
be  got  at  "  the  shop."  My  incapacity  for 
rural  enjoyments  and  simple  habits  is  ma- 
nifest to  Agrestilla,  from  my  absurdly  ob- 
jecting to  the  smell  of  tallow-candles  "  in 
the  country."  Agrestilla's  rooms  are  pro- 
fusely lighted  with  wax  in  Paris,  "  but 
nobody  thinks  of  such  a  thing  '  in  the  coun- 
try '  for  nearly  a  month  or  two," — as  if  life 
were  not  made  up  of  months,  weeks,  and 
hours  ! 

I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Editor,  that  I  may  have 
wearied  you  by  my  prolixity,  but  since  all 
acumen  of  taste  is  to  disappear,  when  we 
pass  the  bills  of  mortality,  I  will  hope  that 
my  communication  may  prove  good  enough 
to  be  read — in  the  country. 

N. 


FEMALE  FRIENDSHIP. 

Joy  cannot  claim  a  purer  bliss, 

Nor  grief  a  dew  from  stain  more  clear, 
Than  female  friendship's  meeting  kiss. 

Than  female  friendship's  parting  tear. 
How  sweet  the  heart's  full  bliss  to  pour 
To  her,  whose  smile  must  crown  the  store ! 

How  sweeter  still  to  tell  of  woes 
To  her,  whose  faithful  breast  would  share 
In  every  grief,  in  every  care, 

Whose  sigh  can  lull  them  to  repose  t 
Oh !  blessed  sigh !  there  is  no  sorrow, 
But  from  thy  breath  can  sweetness  borrow  ; 
E'en  to  the  pale  and  drooping  flower 
That  fades  in  love's  neglected  hour ; 
E'en  with  her  woes  can  friendship's  pow'r 

One  happier  feeling  blpnd  : 
'Tis  from  her  restless  bed  to  creep, 
And  sink  like  wearied  babe  to  sleep, 
On  the  soft  coach  her  sorrows  steep, 
Tl«e  boecm  cf  a  friend. 

Miss  Mitford. 


LINES  TO  A  SPARROW. 

WHO    COMES    TO    MY    WlNDOW     EVER'/ 
MORNING  FOR  HIS  BREAKFAST. 

Master  Dicky,  my  dear, 

You  have  nothing  to  fear, 
Your  proceedings  I  mean  not  to  check,  sir ; 

Whilst  the  weather  benumbs, 

We  should  pick  up  our  crumbs, 
So,  I  prithee,  make  free  with  a  peck,  sir. 

I'm  afraid  it's  too  plain 
You're  a  villain  in  grain, 
But  in  that  you  resemble  your  neighbours. 
For  mankind  have  agreed 
It  is  right  to  suck  seed, 
"Then,  like  you,  hop  the  twig  with  their  labour*. 

Besides  this,  master  Dick, 

You  of  trade  have  the  trick. 
In  all  branches  you  traffic  at  will,  sir  t 

You  have  no  need  of  shops 

For  your  samples  of  hops, 
And  can  ev'ry  day  take  up  your  bill,  »lr. 

Then  in  foreign  affairs 

You  may  give  yourself  airs, 
For  I've  heard  it  reported  at  home,  sir. 

That  you're  on  the  best  terras 

With  the  diet  of  Worms, 
And  have  often  been  tempted  to  Rome,  sir. 

Thus  you  feather  your  nest 

In  the  way  you  like  best, 
And  live  high  without  fear  of  mishap,  sir ; 

You  are  fond  of  your  grub, 

Have  a  taste  for  some  shrub, 
And  for  gin — there  you  understand  (rap,  sir. 

Tho'  the  rivers  won't  flow 

In  the  frost  and  the  snow, 
And  for  fish  other  folks  vainly  try,  sir ; 

Yet  you'll  have  a  treat. 

For,  in  cold  or  in  heat, 
You  can  still  take  a  perch  with  s.fly,  sir. 

In  love,  too,  oh  Dick, 

(Tho'  you  oft  when  love-sick 
On  the  course  of  good-breeding  may  tramp]*  ; 

And  though  often  henpeck'd, 

Yet)  you  scorn  to  neglect 
To  set  all  mankind  an  cggsample. 

Your  opinions,  'tis  true, 

Are  flighty  a  few. 
But  at  this  I,  for  one,  will  not  grumble  ; 

So — your  breakfast  you've  got. 

And  you're  off  like  a  shot, 
Dear  Dicky,  your  humble  cum  tumble.* 


•  Examiner  Feb.  12,  1815. 


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300 


But*  $0tofr*on,  Bellman  of  JBur&anu 

And  who  gave  thee  that  jolly  red  nose  ? 
Brandy,  cinnamon,  ale,  and  cloves, 
That  gave  me  the  jolly  red  nose. 

OLD  SONO. 


THE  BISHOP  OF  BUTTERBY. 

A  SKETCH,  BY  ONE  OF  HIS  PREBENDARIES. 

For  the  Table  Booh 

I  remember  reading  in  that  excellent 
little  periodical.  "The  Cigar,"  of  the  red 
nose  of  the  friar  of  Dillow,  which  served 
the  holy  man  in  the  stead  of  a  lantern,  when 
he  crossed  the  fens  at  night,  to  visit  the 
fair  lady  of  the  sheriff  of  Gloucestershire. 
Whether  the  nose  of  the  well-known  eccen- 
tp'c  now  under  consideration  ever  lighted 
Ins  path,  when  returning  from  Shinclifle 


feast,  or  Houghton-le-spring  hopping  — 
whether  it  ever 

"  Brightly  beam'd  his  path  above. 
And  lit  his